Words tumble like dice,
nonsense vies with sense.
Life plays hide and seek
with itself.
An artisan mixes clay,
gathers new mud,
spits into it.
He molds a prayer,
words shape themselves.
Each word is a fractal,
of a pregnant womb,
not all, but all the parts
appear
for his seeking hands
to gather in and structure.
Later, once the clay has set,
the worker will craft a cradle,
to reveal the...
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