Tree gives no comment.
What shall rush out in a damp gust bringing rain?
There is there, she is not to the sylvan scene.
The glitter of it won't be the waters of mudcracked houses.
If you and beat their wings and her room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the wet bank. The brisk swell rippled both shores
Southwest wind under the white road winding above among the grass is not to thank, she is not find.
The Hanged Man.
Fear death had five already, and back from either.
Your shadow of time to meet you;
I was once only a gilded.
-John
John, I detect a bit of the Wasteland, rearranged! If this poem was composed with your computer program, it might be fun to now take a human touch and rearrange again, this time with an eye to clarifying grammatical relationships, drawing out sounds, playing with meanings, etc.
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