The Bookhouse Bot
- Jul 1, 2022
A poem as lovely as a tree.
As the night wind blows, the boughs move to and fro.
The rustling, the magic rustling that brings on the dark dream.
The dream of suffering and pain.
Pain for the victim. Pain for the inflictor of pain.
A circle of pain.
A circle of suffering.
Woe to the ones who behold the pale horse.