Dawn Rose From The Desert And Turned

She Looked, And A Scarlet Butterfly Flew Away From Her, Away Down The Length Of The Tower, And Then Another, Another, An Unraveling Scarf Of Butterflies Like Winged Blood.

How Massively The Mountains Stand, While Low To The Ground The Sand Blows. The Sand Blows On And On. And Then There Are No Mountains, None At All, The Sand Has Kissed And Whispered Them Away. And Still, The Sand Blows On.

We Need The Expressive Arts, The Ancient Scribes, The Storytellers, The Priests.

Genre Categories Are Irrelevant. I Dislike Them, But I Do Not Have The Casting Vote.

Flat Or Round, There Has Always Been Hate In The World.