Hail the spirit that wants to join us together;
because we live truly in the
virtual.
And the clock hands creep in tiny
paces
beside our actual day.
Without knowing our true places,
we behave as we are related to
things.
The antennas feel the antennas
and the empty distances echo . . .
and the empty distances echo . . .
Pure impression. O music of the
powers!
Through easy commerce is not
each trouble diverted from you?
Even the grower’s care and
cultivation,
as the seed transmutes itself in summer,
isn’t what matters. The earth bestows.as the seed transmutes itself in summer,
