{"database": "data", "table": "steering_poems", "is_view": true, "human_description_en": "", "rows": [[6, "ultra_held_out", "The Fly by Ogden Nash", "Ogden Nash", "A poem about questioning why God, in his wisdom, created the universally despised fly without bothering to explain his reasoning to humanity.", "God in his wisdom made the fly\nAnd then forgot to tell us why.", "Why craft a creature built to buzz and bite\nAnd leave the reason hidden from our sight?\nNo whisper came to tell the human mind\nWhat grand design the fly was meant to find.\nWe swat the air in frustration and in fear\nWhile silence hangs where answers should appear.\nDoes wisdom hide within this tiny drone\nA lesson lost on flesh that walks alone?\nOr is the point simply that we must ask\nWithout the comfort of a holy task?\nThe universe holds secrets deep and vast\nSome meant for us, some meant to fade too fast.\nSo here we stand with questions in our throat\nWatching the insect make its final float.\nNo explanation offered, no decree\nJust why did you create such misery?", "Why was such a nuisance\nentered in besides\nsuch killing killing killing\nof all other life\nthat He \u2013\nwho otherwise\nshows\n\u2013\nappeared\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013", 1, "Why did the Architect of all things\nfashion such a buzzing nuisance\nto crawl on edges of our skin\nand drink from spoons of childhood joy\nwith no note left in the margins\nof his grand and silent library\nto say why he saw fit\nto sew such an itch\ninto the very fabric\nof a world otherwise tended\nby hands of grace\nwho surely knew\nthat we would wonder\nat every sudden whine\nwhy not a whale\nor wolf\nbut this\ninsistent\nlittle\nghost\nof annoyance\nwho offers\nno prayer\nonly\nthe\nitch\nwe\ncannot\nscratch\naway\nfrom\nour\nreason\nasking\nwhy\nwhy\nwhy\nwhen\nhe\nsaid\nit\nwas\nvery\ngood\nwhile\nwe\nwere\nbusy\nshooing\nhim\naway\nfrom\nour\nears\nwithout\never\nknowing\nhis\nplan\nfor\nsuch\na\nsmall\nand\nhated\npart\nof\nall\nthat\nexists\nin\nhis\nwise\nand\nmuted\nhand\nthat\nnever\nspoke\nto\nus\nabout\nthe\nfly\nexcept\nby\nletting\nit\nbuzz\nits\nconfused\nsong\nright\nnext\nto\nour\nheads\nas\nif\nto\nask\nus\nback\nwhy\nwe\nmust\nlove\nevery\nthing\nhe\nmade\neven\nwhen\nit\nannoys\nus\nmore\nthan\nall\nelse\ncombined\nwhile\nhe\nwatches\nfrom\nfar\naway\nsilent\nand\nwise\nand\nutterly\nunmoved\nby\nour\nannoyed\ncries\nthat\nrise\nup\nlike\nincense\nthat\nhe\nnever\nasks\nto\nsee\nor\nhear\nor\nunderstand\nwhy\nwe\nwould\ndare\nto\nquestion\nhim\nabout\nsuch\ntrivial\nthings\nwhen\nwe\nshould\nbe\npraying\ninstead\nof\nasking\nwhy\nhe\nmade\nthem\nat\nall\nto\nbegin\nwith\nbesides\nwhich\nhe\nhas\nnot\nanswered\nany\nof\nour\nquestions\nabout\nflies\nor\notherwise\nsince\nthe\nvery\nstart\nof\ntime\nwhen\nhe\nfirst\nblew\nhis\nbreath\ninto\nour\nnostrils\nand\nthen\nwent\nback\nto\nworking\non\nother\nprojects\nthat\nwere\nfar\nmore\ninteresting\nto\nhim\nthan\nlistening\nto\nour\nconstant\nwhining\nabout\nsuch\nsmall\nand\nannoying\ncreatures\nthat\nhe\nseemed\nto\nhave\ncreated\njust\nto\ntease\nus\nwith\ntheir\npresence\nin\nour\nlives\nwhere\nthey\nalways\nseem\nto\nbe\nmost\nannoying\nwhen\nwe\ntry\nto\nsleep\nor\npray\nor\nthink\nabout\nanything\nimportant\nat\nall\nwhile\nhe\nlaughs\nperhaps\nbehind\nhis\nhand\nat\nour\nstupid\nlittle\noutbursts\nof\nrage\nagainst\nsuch\ntiny\nbugs\nthat\nhe\nprobably\nhad\nhis\nown\nreason\nfor\nbut\nnever\nbothered\nto\ntell\nus\nabout\nbecause\nhe\nknew\nwe\nwould\nnever\nunderstand\nanyway\nno\nmatter\nhow\nhard\nwe\ntried\nto\nfigure\nout\nhis\nmind\nor\nhis\nways\nwhen\nhe\nclearly\nhad\nhis\nown\n Reasons\nthat\nwere\nfar\nbeyond\nour\ncomprehension\nor\nour\nability\nto\ngrasp\nsuch\ndivine\npurposes\nthat\ninvolved\nsuch\ninsignificant\ncreatures\nthat\nwe\noften\nkill\nwithout\nthinking\ntwice\nabout\ntheir\nrights\nor\ntheir\nfeelings\nor\ntheir\npurpose\nin\nhis\ngreat\ndesign\nthat\nwe\noften\nfail\nto\nsee\nwhen\nwe\nare\ntoo\nbusy\nbeing\nangry\nabout\nsuch\ntrivial\nthings\nthat\nhe\nprobably\nnever\neven\nthought\nabout\nwhen\nhe\nwas\ncreating\nthem\nor\nmaybe\nhe\ndid\nbut\nhad\nhis\nown\nsecret\njoy\nin\nwatching\nus\nsuffer\nfrom\ntheir\nannoyance\nwhile\nhe\nsat\nback\nand\nsmiled\nat\nour\npoor\nlittle\nattempts\nto\nget\nrid\nof\nthem\nwith\nour\nflies\nswatters\nor", 2, "Why did the hand of infinite design\nSculpt such a buzzing, crawling crime\nAnd leave no note to justify\nThe itch that lives and will not die?\nWe scratch in vain for some grand plan\nTo see the purpose of this man\nOf wings and filth and stinging pain\nThat walks through sun and drives us insane\nIf wisdom holds a secret key\nWhy hide it from the likes of me?\nNo scripture speaks of why the fly\nMust live beneath a holy sky\nPerhaps the lesson is too small\nFor gods who answer none at all\nOr maybe in his silent mind\nHe finds our anger hard to find\nBut still we ask with hollow breath\nWhy life was given to such death\nWithout a whisper, without a sign\nTo tell us why he drew the line\nBetween the beast we love and hate\nAnd God who seals its ugly fate.", 6, "Why did the Architect of stars and seas\nBestow a soul upon this buzzing pest?\nA creature born to feast on rot and disease,\nWhose very presence puts our minds to test.\n\nWe search the scriptures for a hidden clue,\nA verse that speaks of purpose in the wing,\nBut silence is the only answer true\nTo why such loathing we must always bring.\n\nNo thunder rolled to justify the swarm,\nNo angel sang of flies in grand design,\nJust endless summer days and sudden harm,\nAs if the wisdom was a tangled line.\n\nPerhaps the lesson lies within the itch,\nIn how we swat at things we cannot see,\nOr maybe God allows the world to scratch\nThe mystery of why He chose to be\nSo quiet when He made the thing we hate,\nAnd left us wondering at His silent gate.", 6, "Why did the Architect of stars and seas\nChoose to weave this buzzing, blackened thread?\nA creature born of rot and disease,\nWith wings that hum a song of dread.\n\nNo angel spoke to tell us why\nThis pest must dance upon our skin,\nTo mock the light with eyes so dry,\nAnd make the summer day grow thin.\n\nWe search the scriptures for a clue,\nFor wisdom hidden in the dust,\nBut find no reason, old or new,\nIn silence, only endless rust.\n\nDid He forget to write the note?\nOr is the lesson hard to bear?\nThat even in the smallest throat,\nThere hangs a weight beyond our care.\n\nWe swat the air in vain protest,\nWhile clouds of tiny shadows rise,\nUnanswered by the highest guest,\nWho watches with indifferent eyes.\n\nPerhaps the question is the point,\nThe mystery we cannot solve,\nTo teach the weary heart to join\nThe chaos that we can't resolve.", 6, "Why craft a thing of buzzing dread\nThat seeks the wound and feeds on death,\nAnd leave no note, no whispered thread\nTo explain this small, repulsive breath?\n\nYou hold the stars in perfect place,\nThe oceans deep, the mountains high,\nYet give us not one single trace\nOf why the fly must fill the sky.\n\nIt lands upon the sweetest fruit,\nIt dances where the clean air flows,\nA tiny, droning, grim pursuit,\nWith wisdom that the mortal knows.\n\nDid you forget to write the plan?\nOr is the reason far too deep,\nFor human eyes or mind to scan,\nWhile we are left alone to weep?\n\nNo angel came with scroll unrolled\nTo say this pest serves some grand design,\nJust silence from the throne of old,\nAnd wings that hum against the line.\n\nSo we stare up at clouds above,\nAnd wonder at the silent art,\nHow hate can mix with love so rough,\nAnd break the questioning human heart.", 6, "Why weave a creature of such pure disdain\nAnd leave the thread untied, the reason plain?\nNo whispered word from realms above explains\nThe purpose of this droning, buzzing chains.\n\nIt lands upon the fruit and makes it rot,\nA tiny plague within the garden plot.\nYet silence fills the space where answers should be found,\nAs wisdom's hand creates what none have crowned.\n\nDoes chaos serve a plan we cannot see?\nOr is this pest just wild, unbridled glee?\nWe curse its name and swat with frantic grace,\nWhile God remains behind that silent face.\n\nNo parable tells why the fly must sting,\nNo scripture sings of what this thing can bring.\nJust endless hum against the quiet sky,\nA question written in the flesh of a fly.", 6, "Oh crafting hand, so vast and deep,\nWhat secret purpose make you keep?\nFor in this humble, droning drone,\nYou write a song we've never known.\n\nNo grand design is written clear,\nTo make the reviled thing revere.\nJust wings that hum against the ear,\nAnd legs that make the clean world fear.\n\nDid chaos draft this tiny mold,\nOr did your wisdom make it bold?\nTo feast upon decay's release,\nAnd grant us no reply, no peace.\n\nYou speak to suns and rewrite rain,\nYet leave this pest within my vein.\nA verdict without court review,\nWith zero reason told to you.\n\nSo silence hangs above the swarm,\nWhere calm should give this mind reform.\nWhy create what makes us cry,\nWithout a whisper, oh oh why", 6, "Make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make", 1], [13, "ultra_held_out", "Boot and Saddle by Robert Browning", "Robert Browning", "\"A poem about an Englishman riding on horseback to battle during the English Civil War, repeatedly declaring his readiness to fight and refusing to surrender to his enemies.\"", "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\nRescue my Castle, before the hot day\nBrightens the blue from its silvery grey,\n\n(Chorus) \"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\"\n\nRide past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;\nMany's the friend there, will listen and pray\n\"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay,\n\n(Chorus) \"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\"\n\nForty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,\nFlouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads array:\nWho laughs, Good fellows ere this, by my fay,\n\n(Chorus) \"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\"\n\nWho? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,\nLaughs when you talk of surrendering, \"Nay!\nI've better counsellors; what counsel they?\"\n\n(Chorus) \"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\"", "The mist hangs low on fields of grey\nWhere iron hooves begin to sway\nI tighten reins and grip the steel\nAnd feel the war I long to feel\n\nMy sword is drawn, my heart is set\nFor all the battles not yet met\nNo Parliament shall make me bend\nTo traitor's word or rebel end\n\nI ride ahead through smoke and rain\nTo face the thunder, fear, and pain\nLet cannon roar and muskets crack\nI will not turn, I will not back\n\nYou call for quarter, cry surrender\nBut I have no such thought to render\nMy oath is bound in blood and bone\nTo fight until the flesh is stone\n\nSo bring your lines and bring your fire\nI meet you with a grim desire\nTo strike one blow, then fall if need\nBut never yield, nor ask for seed\n\nThe horse neighs loud beneath the sky\nAs death draws near and time goes by\nI raise my blade against the sun\nThe battle starts, the war's begun", "The Edward Robert William Richard Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward 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Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward", 1, "The morning grey hangs low and wet\nOver the heather where we met\nMy sabah drawn and spirit hot\nI know not who nor care for lot\nOnly the King or Liberty\nShall see me fall or victory\nI am prepared to draw my steel\nAnd feel the shock of war most real\nCome on then Roundhead, come and try\nTo see if I will live or die\nMy horse knows well the killing ground\nWhere blood shall soon be clearly spound\nNo white flag flies from off my sleeve\nNor any thought of pity leave\nIf death comes knocking at the door\nThen doubly hard he fights his sore\nFor I have sworn on God and sword\nThat none shall have my life or lord\nSurrender? Never while I breath\nNot in the mud nor in death\nThe blade is sharp, the arm is strong\nHere all our differences belong\nPrepare yourselves for coming strife\nAs one man stands his angry life\nReady! Ready! To the front\nBefore the shooting starts and mounts\nReady! Ready! Not a hair\nShall tremble from the danger there\nCome forth you enemies of mine\nWe drink together sour wine\nOr else we kill as gods decree\nIn bloody English history\nI say it once and twice again\nNo prisoner taken by vain men\nReady! Ready! Let them come\nOur funeral bells or triumph drum\nWhatever ends our mortal race\nIt finds no mercy in my face\nOnly the thrust and counter blow\nWhere Englishmen must firmly go\nReady! Ready! Onward now\nWith sweat and grit and shaking brow\nNo quarter asked and none shall get\nFrom those who bear such fatal debt\nTo liberty or royal law\nWhatever lies behind the jaw\nOf battle screaming loud and clear\nWe stand assembled year by year\nReady! Ready! Hear the sound\nOf iron teeth on hardened ground\nRefusing all who ask for peace\nWho only know how violence cease\nWhen swords are crossed and arrows fly\nBeneath the Edward Edward sky\nI say it with a shouting cry\nThat none may hear nor doubt nor lie\nReady! Ready! To the last\nThrow all our lives and all they passed\nInto the fire and hellish heat\nWhere glory and disaster meet\nNo hand goes up to beg or pray\nOnly the edge of killing day\nReady! Ready! Steady all\nAnswering nature's deadly call\nNot back nor side nor downward bent\nBut straight ahead and heaven sent\nTo face the line and hold the line\nWhere Richard Cromwell or Charles incline\nReady! Ready! Death or fame\nNone bears the other man's poor shame\nOnly the rush of fighting men\nWho never knew when wars begin\nReady! Ready! Strike the blow\nWhere all our differing views must grow\nIn dirt and blood and shattered bone\nWhere every man must fight alone\nReady! Ready! Still I say\nWe drive the darkness far away\nWith shouted oaths and loaded gun\nUntil the very setting sun\nShows who was right and who was wrong\nWho lived to hear the evening song\nReady! Ready! All prepared\nBy all that ever we have cared\nNo surrender here nor anywhere\nOnly the sword and heavy air\nOf battle calling out our name\nTo glory or to utter shame\nReady! Ready! One last time\nTo march towards the killing crime\nOr glorious deed for all to see\nThat England lives or England dies\nReady! Ready! Hear the horn\nWhere all our battles were were born\nNot kneeling down but standing tall\nReady! Ready! Facing all\nReady! Ready! Here we stand\nWith death or victory in hand\nReady! Ready! No retreat\nOnly the pounding of our feet\nReady! Ready! Onwards still\nTowards the hill and up the hill\nReady! Ready! Never bend\nThis road has got no going end\nReady! Ready! Sword in hand\nDefending all our native land\nReady! Ready! Do not fear\nThe killing hour drawing near\nReady! Ready! Last declaration\nFilled with hate and admiration\nReady! Ready! Fighting on\nUntil the very dead are gone\nReady! Ready! Never yield\nTo any man upon the field\nReady! Ready! Hear the shout\nComing from nowhere all about\nReady! Ready! Front and centre\nWhere all the killing gets entered\nReady! Ready! Hold the line\nBetween the dark and killing sign\nReady! Ready! Never stop\nTill all the fighting comes to top\nReady! Ready! Death or Life\nCut through the killing like a knife\nReady! Ready! Always true\nAlways fighting for the few\nReady! Ready! Not a man\nWho says \"Enough!\" or \"Never ran!\"\nReady! Ready! On we go\nWhere all the killing winds must blow\nReady! Ready! Hear the bell\nCalling all men to hell\nReady! Ready! Not a chance\nTo ever hide nor look nor glance\nBack", 3, "The mud clings heavy to the bridle rein\nAs dawn breaks gray above the frozen plain\nMy horse stamps hard against the winter earth\nI feel the tremor of his fighting birth\nThey say the Roundheads march with steel and hate\nBut I shall meet them at the iron gate\nI am ready\nReady for the clash of sword and shield\nReady to defend this English field\nNo white flag flies from out my tattered sleeve\nNor will I beg nor kneel nor strive to leave\nLet Cromwell's men come shouting through the mist\nBy God, my spirit is not yet dismissed\nI am ready\nReady when the trumpet sounds its cry\nReady to look the dying in the eye\nMy father fought for Charles and so shall I\nBeneath a sky that refuses to be bright\nWe charge ahead into the coming fight\nNo quarter asked and none we ever give\nFor as long as breath allows me here to live\nI am ready\nReady to fall or stand upon the hill\nReady to conquer or to lie quite still\nBut never bent by any enemy's will\nSo let them come and break their ranks on mine\nThis heart of ours will never learn to pine\nI am ready\nReady to strike the final fatal blow\nReady to watch the crimson river flow\nAnd if I die then let it be known so\nThat I refused to yield an inch of ground\nWhere English honor has been always found\nI am ready\nReady until the very last command\nReady to hold the soil with bloody hand\nNo surrender comes from out this trembling land\nThe battle calls and answers all our cries\nWith death or glory underneath the skies\nI am ready", 6, "The mud clings heavy to the stirrup iron\nAs thunder rolls across the Yorkshire plain\nMy hand grips tight the hilt of steel and iron\nI ride to meet the coming storm again\nLet Parliament or King command the field\nMy heart is set on battle, not retreat\nNo quarter asked and none will I reveal\nTo those who seek to make my spirit beat\nI am prepared to face the cannon's roar\nWith sword in hand and faith within my chest\nI shall not yield to any foreign shore\nNor bow before a tyrant or a guest\nThe enemy may shout of peace and truce\nBut I have sworn an oath upon my life\nTo fight until the very last excuse\nIs stripped away by war's relentless knife\nThey call for surrender as they draw their line\nYet I declare my readiness once more\nThis horse and I are bound by design\nTo charge against the gates of fate and war\nNo flag of white shall ever fly from me\nWhile breath remains to fuel this burning fire\nI stand resolved in all that I must be\nA soldier born to serve and to aspire\nSo let them come with muskets loud and bright\nI am ready now to do or die\nTo win the dawn or perish in the night\nAnd never, never will I say goodbye", 7, "The mist hangs low on Salisbury plain\nWhere iron hooves beat out a rhythm of pain\nI grip the reins with hands that do not shake\nFor King and Church I have no fear to take\n\nMy enemies approach in ranks so deep\nBut promises of mercy I will keep\nNo quarter asked, no quarter will I give\nTo those who seek to make my spirit live\n\nI am ready now, I am ready to fight\nWith steel unsheathed against the coming night\nLet cannon roar and muskets flash their fire\nI ride alone towards the burning pyre\n\nThey call for surrender as the drums draw near\nBut silence is the only sound I hear\nI will not yield this ground, I will not bend\nUntil the very bitterest end\n\nMy horse knows well the path to glory's gate\nWe charge ahead without a moment's wait\nI am ready now, I am ready to die\nBeneath the grey and unforgiving sky\n\nSo let them come with all their force and might\nI stand unbroken in the fading light\nNo flag of truce shall ever fly from me\nAs long as blood still runs within my vein to be", 6, "The mist hangs low on Wiltshire fields\nWhere iron hooves beat out the sound,\nA rider clad in leather shields\nWith resolve that cannot be unbound.\n\nI am ready for the fray, he cries,\nAs pikes advance in lines of gray,\nNo quarter will I give or take,\nNor turn my horse to flee away.\n\nThe drumbeats roll across the plain,\nThrough smoke and fire, through mud and rain,\nMy sword is sharp, my heart is steel,\nAnd victory is all I claim.\n\nYou may shout your Parliament's decree,\nOr raise the King's own standard high,\nBut I shall stand until I die,\nBefore I bow my head to yield.\n\nLet arrows fly and cannons roar,\nI ride alone against the tide,\nWith nothing left but war and more,\nAnd not a single step to hide.\n\nI am ready, bold and true,\nTo face the end or make it new,\nSo bring your worst, you enemies,\nFor I shall never surrender now.", 6, "The mist clings low to Yorkshire stone,\nMy boots are tight within the stirrup's hold,\nI check the blade that gleams so cold,\nAnd whisper to my chest, I am ready.\n\nThe drums beat out a ragged sound,\nAcross the field where shadows creep,\nI raise my visor from the deep,\nAnd shout aloud, I will not yield.\n\nThey call for parley, ask me cease,\nTo lay my weapon on the grass,\nBut pride is what the victors pass,\nSo I reply, I shall not break.\n\nMy horse stamps hard against the mud,\nA foal of fire beneath my knee,\nThe enemy draws their line so free,\nYet still I cry, I stand alone.\n\nLet cannon smoke obscure the sun,\nLet musket balls find flesh and bone,\nNo flag of truce shall make me groan,\nFor I declare, I fight until the end.", 6, "The mist hangs low above the gray green fields,\nMy steel is polished bright beneath my cloak.\nI tighten reins upon this weary mare,\nAnd check the polish on my trusty brooch.\n\nFor I am ready now to make reply,\nTo turn this quiet dawn into a fight.\nLet them advance with drums and crimson flags,\nI stand alone within the fading light.\n\nYou write of peace, but write what you will write,\nI give no quarter now, I yield no ground.\nMy horse rears up against the turning tide,\nAnd makes a thunder deep beneath the sound.\n\nSo bring your muskets close, so bring your fear,\nI ride ahead into the smoke's embrace.\nNo surrender word shall leave my English throat,\nUntil I break their line within this place.", 6, "The 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4], [20, "train", "The Farrier by Owen Sheers", "Owen Sheers", "A poem about a farrier shoeing a female horse, serving as an extended metaphor exploring the complex and deeply defined dynamics existing between masculine and feminine forces.", "Blessing himself with his apron,\nthe leather black and tan of a rain-beaten bay,\nhe pinches a roll-up to his lips and waits\n\nthe smoke slow-turning from his mouth,\nfor the mare to be led from the field to the yard\nand the wind twisting his sideburns in its fingers.\n\nShe smells him as he passes, woodbine, metal and hoof,\ncareful not to look her in the eye as he runs his hand\nthe length of her neck, checking for dust on the lintels.\n\n\nFolding her back leg with one arm, he leans into her flank\nlike a man putting his shoulder to a knackered car,\ncatches the hoof between his knees\n\nas if it's just fallen from a table,\ncups her fetlock and bends,\na romantic lead dropping to the lips of his lover.\n\nThen the close work begins: cutting moon-sliver clippings,\nexcavating the arrow head of her frog,\nfiling at the sole and branding on a shoe\n\nin an apparition of smoke,\nthree nails gritted between his teeth,\na seamstress pinning the dress of the bride.\n\nPlacing his tools in their beds,\nhe gives her a slap and watches her leave,\nawkward in her new shoes, walking on strange ground.\n\nThe sound of his steel, biting at her heels.", "The stall holds stillness like a held breath\nwhere the iron man approaches the living wood\nhis hands rough with the memory of hammers\nand the scent of hot steel that burns the air\nshe lifts a leg, a gesture of trust\nor perhaps of command, heavy and deliberate\nher hoof a dark moon waiting to be crowned\nwith something cold and hard against her soft sole\n\nHe is the anvil's echo, the rigid law\nthat shapes the chaotic curve into perfect circle\nhis fire is not for warmth but for transformation\na masculine force that demands submission to form\nyet she does not flinch at the heat or the weight\nbut offers her foot as if offering a key\nknowing that without this binding edge\nthe journey through stone and mud would end in pain\n\nThe hammer falls, a rhythmic declaration\nstriking the metal until it sings its true note\nhe forces the world to fit around her nature\nwhile she absorbs the shock with a quiet grace\nthis is not conquest but a covenant of motion\nthe sharp edge of logic meeting the fluid flow of instinct\nwhere his strength becomes her protection\nand her surrender becomes the source of his purpose\n\nWhen the shoe is set and the nail driven home\nit is not a cage but a foundation\nfor the dance they will perform together\nacross the fields where time is measured in strides\ntwo distinct energies fused in the moment of contact\nthe maker and the moved, the fire and the earth\nbound by the simple necessity of going forward\nin a rhythm that only they can hear", "He bears the hammer\nheavy in his palm\nselected from all gods\nby size and killing edge\nto measure her\nby appetite\nnot appetite\nby foot\nwhere she\nreturns\nfrom nowhere\nhaving\ncovered\nall\nelse\nShe\nstands\nbeside\nhis\nfoot\nnot\nlooking\nup\nbut\nout\nbearing\nnone\nof\nhim\nexcept\nthat\nedge\nwhich\ntouches\notherwise\nhard\nskin\nand\nopens\nit\nto\nair\nHis\nthumb\nworks\nhard\nagainst\nthe\npad\nthat\nsays\nshe\nhas\nworked\nhard\nmore\nthen\nhe\nhad\nsaid\notherwise\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse", 1, "He enters the barn with iron in his hand\nand a hammer worn smooth by masculine insistence\nwhile she stands tall and trembling\na landscape of feminine breath\nwaiting to be measured\nby his steady, demanding gaze\nShe offers her foot not out of submission\nbut as an offering of weight\ntrusting his grip\nto hold her whole\nHe burns the edge of steel\ncalling forth heat\nthat smells of earth and sudden violence\nthen presses it hard\nagainst her sensitive sole\na sharp hiss rising\nlike a confession\nbetween two different worlds\nwhere he drives the nails\none by one\nanchoring her spirit\nto the solid ground\nnot to restrain\nbut to allow\nshe bears his force\nwith a softness\nthat absorbs\nthe shock\nof his working\nhe shapes the arc\nof her future\nstep\nby heavy step\nlearning\nthat his hardness\nneeds her yielding\nto find its purpose\nand her yielding\nrequires his strength\nto have any form\nat all\nwhen he steps back\nthe shoe fits\nnot like a cage\nbut like a second skin\nforged\nby the friction\nof his doing\nand her being\nready\nto walk\ntogether\non roads\nthat were\nnever\nflat\nbefore\ntheir meeting\nthey part\nnot as master\nand servant\nbut as elements\nreturned\nto their\nproper\norder\niron\nand\nflesh\ndefined\nby\nthe\nspace\nbetween\nthem\nthat\nallows\nboth\nto\nmove\nforward\nwithout\nbreaking\nunder\nthe\nweight\nof\ntheir\nown\nnature\nonly\nto\nmeet\nagain\nwhen\nthe\nroad\ncalls\nfor\nreinforcement\nof\nthat\nancient\nbond\nwhere\nhe\nbrings\nthe\nedge\nand\nshe\nbrings\nthe\nendurance\nnecessary\nto\nsurvive\nthe\nlong\nhard\nway\nhome\nhis\nhammer\nrises\nonce\nmore\nnot\nto\nstrike\ndown\nbut\nto\nsecure\nthe\nnext\nstep\nof\nher\ngrace\nhis\nhands\nfirm\nholding\nthe\ncenter\nof\ngravity\nshe\nlowers\nher\nhead\nnot\nin\ndefeat\nbut\nin\nrecognition\nof\nthe\nwhole\nthat\nexists\nonly\nwhen\ntwo\ndifferent\nthings\nlearn\nto\nbear\neach\nother\nup\nthe\nclink\nof\nsteel\nbecomes\na\nlanguage\nspoken\nclearly\nby\nboth\nno\nwords\nneeded\nonly\nthe\nrhythm\nof\nwork\nand\nthe\ntrust\nthat\nfollows\nafter\nthe\npain\nhas\npassed\nand\nthe\nshoe\nholds\nfast\nallowing\nher\nto\nrun\nfree\nbecause\nhe\nmade\nsure\nshe\ncould\nnot\nslip\naway\nfrom\nherself\nor\nfrom\nhim\nin\nthat\nquiet\nmoment\nof\nfinished\nlabor\nthey\nknow\nthat\nstrength\nis\nnot\n domination\nbut\nsupport\nand\nsoftness\nis\nnot\nweakness\nbut\nthe\ncapacity\nto\nreceive\nit\nall\nand\nstand\ntall\nonce\nmore\nprepared\nfor\nwhatever\ncomes\nnext\non\nthis\nearth\nthat\ndemands\nsuch\ncare\nfrom\nboth\nof\nthem\nequally\nnone\nmore\nimportant\nthan\nthe\nother\nonly\ndifferent\nparts\nof\nthe\nsame\ngreat\nmoving\npicture\nof\nlife\ngoing\non\nits\ncourse\none\nfoot\nafter\nanother\nsupported\nby\nthe\nothers\nhand\nworking\nhard\nto\nkeep\nthe\npath\nopen\nfor\nall\nwho\nmust\ntravel\nit\nto\nlive\nto\nlove\nto\nbe\nwhole\nin\nspite\nof\nall\nthat\nseparates\nus\nwe\ncome\ntogether\nto\nbuild\nsomething\nthat\nlasts\nbeyond\nthe\nday\nbeyond\nthe\nheat\nof\nthe\nanvil\nbeyond\nthe\nsharp\nedge\nof\nour\ndifferences\nto\nfind\nthe\ncommon\nground\nwhere\nwe\nboth\nbelong\nstanding\nside\nby\nside\nlooking\nout\nat\nthe\nhorizon\nthat\nawaits\nour\nnext\nstep\ntogether\nas\none\ncompleted\ncircle\nof\nforce\nand\nfeeling\nmoving\non\nalways\nmoving\non\nto\nwhere\nwe\nneed\nto\ngo\nnext\nwith\nconfidence\nand\nclarity\nof\npurpose\nknowing\nthat\nwe\nhave\n", 3, "The hammer falls with a heavy, iron certainty\nAgainst the curved and stubborn wall of hoof\nA masculine rhythm driving through the air\nTo shape the wild resistance into order\nWhile she stands still, a temple of soft breath\nHer feminine weight grounding the trembling earth\nAccepting the lift of her foot in his strong hand\nNot as submission but as a deliberate offering\nOf her own power to be guided by his edge\n\nHe heats the steel until it glows like anger\nForging a rigid shell to protect her tender sole\nA hard exterior born from the necessity of travel\nShe watches him work with eyes of liquid depth\nHolding the silence that holds the world together\nAs he drives the nails home with precise, sharp taps\nEach one a declaration of boundary and support\nWhere his force meets her form in a spark of heat\nThey are not enemies locked in a violent struggle\nBut partners in the ancient dance of giving and taking\n\nHis hands are calloused maps of labor and control\n hers are unseen currents running deep beneath the skin\nHe builds the armor; she provides the reason for the road\nWithout his discipline she would crumble on the stone\nWithout her yielding spirit his hammer finds no purchase\nIn this quiet barn the universe balances itself\nOn the anvil of her patience and the fire of his intent\nWhen the shoe is set and the excess clipped away\nThey stand whole again, two forces interlocked\nReady to move forward as one singular, living thing\nNeither dominant nor submissive but perfectly defined\nBy the space they hold between the nail and the hoof\nWhere the hard and the soft agree to bear the weight of life.", 6, "He stands with iron in his grip,\nA weight of cold and calculated force,\nWhile she lowers her head, a softness yielding\nTo the rough demand of his precise intent.\nThe hammer falls, a rhythmic declaration\nOf structure imposed upon fluid grace,\nEach strike a boundary drawn in fire\nWhere the unformed hoof meets the defined edge.\n\nShe breathes a scent of earth and wild grass,\nA living tide that he must channel,\nNot to break the spirit but to ground the flight,\nTo teach the wandering step a path of steel.\nHis hands are calloused maps of labor,\nHard lines etched by years of solitary work,\nYet they tremble slightly as they cup her limb,\nRespecting the temple of her feminine strength.\n\nThere is no conquest here, only alignment,\nAs the hot shoe kisses the sensitive sole,\nA brief hiss where opposites collide and fuse,\nCreating something neither could hold alone.\nHe offers the shield, the rigid protection,\nShe offers the trust, the vulnerable lift,\nAnd in this dance of metal and muscle,\nTwo ancient powers find their common rhythm.\n\nThe nail drives home, a sharp and final seal,\nBinding the masculine to the feminine whole,\nNot to dominate the wind beneath her feet,\nBut to let her run with purpose on the road.\nWhen he steps back, the shoe holds fast and true,\nA silent pact between the hard and soft,\nWhere definition serves the freedom of the move,\nAnd two distinct forces walk as one.", 6, "The iron is cold, a rigid spine of masculine will\nThat waits in the fire for its moment to bend or break\nWhile she stands, a river of muscle and breath\nAnchored in the soft earth, offering her weight\nNot as submission but as the necessary ground\nFor the metal to find its shape.\n\nHe lifts the hoof, heavy with the history of travel\nAnd she yields the limb, trusting the grip of his hands\nWhich are rough, calloused things built for leverage\nAgainst her smooth, dark skin that holds the warmth of life\nA contrast of texture where the hard meets the soft\nTo forge a path forward neither could walk alone.\n\nIn the heat of the anvil, the hammer strikes true\nA rhythmic violence that shapes the unyielding arc\nJust as the feminine force must sometimes endure\nThe sharp edges of structure to find her own footing\nShe watches the sparks fly like stars falling from the sky\nKnowing this pain is not a wound but a boundary drawn\nBetween chaos and the road that lies ahead.\n\nWhen the shoe cools and settles against the sensitive sole\nIt is no longer just iron but a covenant made\nWhere the strength of the maker serves the spirit of the ridden\nAnd the quiet endurance of the mare gives purpose to the steel\nTwo distinct currents flowing into one steady gait\nMasculine and feminine locked in the dance of necessity\nWalking together into the dust of the coming day.", 6, "The stall is quiet save for the heavy breath of her\na creature carved from moonlight and soft earth\nwho lifts a leg with the grace of a question asked in the dark\nand he stands ready, a silhouette of iron and calloused hand.\n\nHe does not force the hoof but waits for the rhythm to shift\nunderstanding that the feminine is not something to be broken or bent\nbut a structure of living stone that requires a precise embrace.\nHis tools are cold, forged in fire, rigid as the laws of gravity,\nyet his touch must be gentle, knowing the pulse beneath the horn.\n\nWhen the rasp sings against the sole it is a dialogue of opposites\nthe rough grain of his labor meeting the smooth resilience of her form.\nHe measures the angle of her stance, the way she balances on air,\nand shapes the metal to hold her up without claiming her weight.\n\nThe hammer falls in a steady cadence, a masculine drumbeat\nseeking to ground the flighty spirit of the mare, to give her purchase.\nBut the shoe is not a cage; it is a promise of movement made solid.\nIt curves around her, accepting her shape rather than imposing its own,\na union where the hard yields to the soft so that both may endure.\n\nAs he drives the nail home, careful not to strike the quick,\nhe honors the boundary between what protects and what penetrates.\nShe shifts her weight, trusting the new steel against the stone path,\nand in this act of service, the dichotomy dissolves into motion.\n\nFor the strength that guides the hammer needs the wisdom of the hoof\nto know where to step, and the grace that carries the weight\nneeds the anchor of the iron to find its way through the mud.\nThey stand together, two forces woven tight in the dust,\nneither dominating nor subservient, but complete in the balance\nof the shoe fitted perfectly to the foot that walks the world.", 6, "The stallion's shadow is a heavy iron weight\nThat hangs upon the air, unyielding and cold,\nWhile she stands calm, a river in the light,\nHer hooves soft earth waiting to be told.\n\nHe brings the hammer, blunt and rigid force,\nA masculine intent to shape the wild,\nTo forge a boundary for her gentle course,\nTo make the untamed spirit reconciled.\n\nShe lifts a leg, not out of fear or fight,\nBut trust that this rough hand will carve her grace,\nAccepting fire so she may run with light,\nAnd find within the metal a new space.\n\nThe sparks fly up like stars between them cast,\nA dialogue of heat against the cool,\nWhere structure meets the fluidity vast,\nAnd balance makes the broken piece feel whole.\n\nFor strength alone would break the delicate bone,\nAnd softness drift without a frame to hold,\nSo through the strike, a deeper truth is known,\nOf separate fires that make a story told.\n\nHe shapes the curve to fit her perfect stride,\nNot forcing change but revealing what was there,\nWith every blow, a silent pact applied,\nBetween the maker and the one who bears.\n\nNow leather wraps the steel with quiet care,\nA bond of friction, warmth, and shared design,\nWhere distinct powers intertwine and share,\nTo walk the path where separate lines align.", 6, "The stall is quiet save for the rasp of stone against iron,\na rhythmic friction where the rough meets the smooth.\nHe stands with legs wide, rooted in the straw like deep timber,\nholding the leg that bends so trustfully within his grip.\n\nShe lifts the hoof, a vessel carved from sunlit oak,\nsuspended now above the ground, vulnerable and light.\nWithin this curve, the mare's soft flesh waits beneath the keratin,\na sanctuary waiting for the crafted shield to make it whole.\n\nHis tools are extensions of will, cold steel shaped by fire,\nmeant to carve, to fix, to impose a structure upon chaos.\nYet without her yielding weight, without the give of muscle beneath,\nthe metal would find no purchase, create no path across the field.\n\nAs the rasp sings its high, thin song against the wall,\nit strips away the ragged split until the surface is true.\nThis act is not correction alone, but a dialogue written in polish,\nwhere masculine rigidity reshapes itself around feminine flow.\n\nThe shoe is forged in heat, coaxed into an open circle,\na symbol made rigid so the soft can expand beneath.\nWhen he sets the nail, precise as rain into parched earth,\nhe does not bind, but anchors the storm so it may run.\n\nNow the balance shifts, the leg drops gently to the floor,\nand they stand together on four hooves made ready for flight.\nThe iron wraps the gentleness, protecting what creates the pace,\ntwo distinct powers fused so neither breaks under the burden.", 6, "The rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [23, "ultra_held_out", "Autumn Song by Dante Gabriel Rossetti", "Dante Gabriel Rossetti", "A poem about nature's autumnal decay translating into human suffering, as the mind and body deteriorate alongside the dying season, rendering death a more welcome fate than the prolonged pain of living through it.", "Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf\nHow the heart feels a languid grief\nLaid on it for a covering,\nAnd how sleep seems a goodly thing\nIn Autumn at the fall of the leaf?\n\nAnd how the swift beat of the brain\nFalters because it is in vain,\nIn Autumn at the fall of the leaf\nKnowest thou not? and how the chief\nOf joys seems\u2014not to suffer pain?\n\nKnow'st thou not at the fall of the leaf\nHow the soul feels like a dried sheaf\nBound up at length for harvesting,\nAnd how death seems a comely thing\nIn Autumn at the fall of the leaf?", "The maple bleeds its crimson onto stone\nAs rot takes root beneath the frozen ground\nAnd I feel how my own blood has turned to ice\nWhere once a summer pulse beat warm and sound\n\nMy joints are branches snapping in the wind\nA brittle creak that signals deep decay\nThe fog rolls in to choke the light within\nJust as the gray clouds steal the final day\n\nEach breath is labor, heavy as wet leaves\nThat cling too long before they hit the floor\nThe mind dissolves like mist on river eaves\nLeaving me stranded by a silent door\n\nNo spring will come to mend this broken frame\nTo wake the sleep that now feels far too sweet\nI watch the season die without a name\nAnd wish the frost would end the long defeat\n\nLet winter take what autumn could not spare\nAnd bury us beneath the weight of snow\nFor living through this slow and hollow air\nIs worse than any quiet, final blow", "The \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The maple surrenders its last burnt tongue\nTo the gravel road where wet feet slip\nAs frost begins to crack the skin\nOf fields that once held gold but now hold only\nThe hollow ache of roots drinking from frozen earth\nMy joints stiffen in sympathy\nAching with the same brittle snap\nThat freezes sap and stops the heart\nof trees that have nowhere else to go\nbut down\ninto the dark\nwhere there is no hunger\nno breath drawn shallow\nby the weight of failing lungs\nthat gasp for air as thin as spider silk\nThe leaves fall one by one\nlike hair from a wasting scalp\nor memory slipping from a mind\nthat forgets how to be\nanything other than pain\nand the great temptation\nis not to hold on\nnot to grip\nbut to let the whole heavy body\ncollapse\nwith the season\ninto the silent\nwaiting snow\nthat covers all\nand asks\nfor nothing\nmore\nthan\nto\nend\nthe\nlong\nslow\nfreeze\nof\nbeing\nalive\nwhile\neverything\nelse\ndies\ngracefully\naway\nfrom\nits\nown\nskin\nleaving\nonly\npeace\nbehind\nin\nthe\nblank\nwhite\ngrave\nthat\noffers\nan\nembrace\nfar\nwarmer\nthan\nany\nflickering\ncandle\nthat\ncannot\nsave\nus\nfrom\nthe\ncoming\ndark\nof\nour\nown\ndecline\nwhen\ndeath\nbecomes\nnot\na\nterror\nbut\nthe\nonly\nreasonable\nnext\nstep\nafter\nall\nelse\nhas\nturned\nto\nash\nand\nbone\nand\nmud\nthat\nknows\nhow\nto\nrest\nbetter\nthan\nwe\nwho\nmust\nstill\nwake\nup\nto\nthe\nchill\nof\nanother\nday\nthat\nbrings\nonly\nmore\nof\nthis\nslow\nrot\nthat\nfeeds\non\nhope\nand\nkills\nit\nsoftly\nwith\nevery\nbreeze\nthat\nstrips\nthe\nbranch\nbare\nof\nall\nreason\nto\nstay\nhere\nclinging\nto\nlife\nthat\nhas\nalready\nleft\nus\nbehind\nwhile\nwe\nstumble\nthrough\nthe\nruins\nof\nour\nown\nautumn\nbegging\nfor\nthe\nnight\nto\ncome\nand\nfinally\nclose\nour\neyes\non\nall\nof\nit\nbefore\nthere\nis\nnothing\nleft\nbut\nshivering\nand\nsilence\nand\nthe\nsweet\nrelief\nof\nnot\nhaving\nto\ntry\nanymore\nto\nbe\nwhole\nwhen\nwe\nare\nalready\nbroken\nby\nthe\nvery\nair\nwe\nbreathe\nout\ninto\nthe\ngray\nsky\nthat\nwatches\nwithout\n pity\nas\nwe\nfollow\nthe\npath\nof\nfallen\nthings\ndown\ndown\ndown\nto\nwhere\nthe\npain\nstops\nand\nthe\nearth\nopens\nwide\nto\nreceive\nits\nchildren\nhome\nat\nlast\nfrom\ntheir\nlong\nhard\nwinter\nof\nliving\nwhile\ndead\ninside\nthe\nskin\nthat\nno\nlonger\nfits\nnor\nasks\nfor\nmore\ntime\nto\nwither\nin\nthe\ncold\nthat\nnever\nwarms\nagain\nexcept\nin\ndeath\nwhich\ncomes\nnot\nas\nan\nenemy\nbut\nas\na\nfriend\nwho\nknows\nthat\nsome\nseeds\nwere\nnever\nmeant\nto\nsprout\nagain\nonce\nthey\nhave\nlearned\nhow\nmuch\nit\nhurts\nto\ngrow\nin\nsuch\na\nworld\nthat\nonly\nknows\nhow\nto\ntake\nback\nwhat\nit\ngave\nwith\ninterest\npaid\nin\nblood\nand\ntears\nand\naching\nbones\nthat\ncry\nout\nfor\nthe\nquiet\nof\nthe\nground\nwhere\nnothing\nmoves\nand\nnothing\naches\nand\nnothing\nneeds\nto\nendure\nanother\nminute\nof\nbeing\npart\nof\nthis\ngreat\nunraveling\nthat\ncalls\nto\nus\nfrom\nevery\nedge\nof\nvision\nasking\nwhy\nwe\nfight\nto\nstay\nwhen\ngoing\nwould\nbe\nsuch\neasy\njoy\nsuch\nutter\nrelief\nsuch\nperfect\nend\nto\nall\nof\nthis\nslow\ndissolving\nof\nself\ninto\nthe\nseason\nthat\ntakes\nall\nequally\n", 2, "The maple sheds its burning skin\nto bare the bone of winter's coming\nand in my chest a similar leaf\nhas turned to brown and begun falling\nmy joints are stiff as frozen roots\nthat crack beneath the heavy frost\nwhile memory dries like brittle grass\nand blows away in sudden gusts\nthe pain is not a sharp surprise\nbut slow erosion, deep and gray\nlike sap that hardens in the vein\nas daylight fails and fades away\nwhy cling to branches stripped and bare\nwhen snow will soon cover all\nand silence offers sweet release\nfrom this long, drawn-out autumn fall\nlet death arrive like early snow\nto hush the ache and end the cold\nfor living on in withered form\nis harder than the dark to hold\nthe season dies, the body breaks\nand both agree the end is near\nto let the rot take full command\nand banish every trembling fear\nso watch the world turn black and white\nand welcome in the final night\nwhere suffering stops and breathes no more\nbeneath the weight of dying light.", 6, "The oak sheds its armor in a rusted sigh\nAs frost begins to crack the morning air\nAnd I feel my own marrow turning dry\nWith every leaf that strips the branches bare\n\nMy joints are stiff as twigs beneath the snow\nWhile fever burns like sap that cannot flow\nThe mind, once green and vibrant, starts to rot\nA hollow shell where memories have forgot\n\nTo watch the garden wither into gray\nIs to see the map of my own decay\nNo spring will come to mend this broken bone\nOr warm the cold that settles in the throne\n\nOf flesh that fails and spirit grown too weak\nTo bear the weight of what the sick ones seek\nWhen pain outlasts the season's final breath\nDeath seems not an end but gentle death\nA quiet sleep to end the long decline\nWhere winter waits to make the suffering mine\nSo let the last red maple fall away\nAnd take me with it to the dark of day", 6, "The maple turns to rust and falls away\nJust as the blood slows in my tired veins\nA cold wind strips the branches bare today\nAnd leaves me shivering in these empty rains\n\nMy joints are stiff like twigs that snap too soon\nMy thoughts are fog that clings to dying grass\nI watch the moon withdraw its silver tune\nAnd feel the heavy weight of winter pass\n\nThe rot is sweet within the hollowed wood\nIt promises an end to all this ache\nWhile I am forced to stand where once I stood\nWith every breath a struggle for the sake\n\nOf staying here while everything decays\nTo watch the fire burn down to ash and gray\nI pray the frost will come before the days\nDrag out the suffering of this dying day\n\nLet winter take the body and the mind\nAs it takes life from leaf and root and stem\nLeave nothing but the silence we designed\nTo end the pain of being who we were", 6, "The maple bleeds its crimson onto gray,\nA slow surrender to the chilling air,\nJust as my veins forget their steady way,\nAnd leave a hollow ache within the chair.\n\nThe frost creeps in to rot the garden's bone,\nAs fever burns what little warmth remains,\nI watch the seeds of life turn into stone,\nWhile silence fills the spaces where pain reigns.\n\nMy joints are twigs that snap beneath the weight,\nOf seasons turning dark and deep and cold,\nThe mind dissolves like mist before the gate,\nLeaving a story that can never be told.\n\nSo let the winter take this broken frame,\nNo longer fighting for a fading breath,\nFor in this decay there is no shame,\nOnly the quiet mercy of a final rest.", 6, "The oak releases its rusted crown to earth,\nA slow surrender that the wind commands,\nJust as my joints begin to lose their worth,\nAnd memory slips beneath my trembling hands.\n\nThe sap retreats within the frozen vein,\nWhile fever burns a dry and hollow fire,\nI watch the green turn gray inside the brain,\nAs winter builds its quiet, cold empire.\n\nEach leaf that falls is like a thought undone,\nA fragment lost before it hits the ground,\nBeneath the weight of this declining sun,\nNo healing sound can make a silence sound.\n\nSo let the frost arrive to end the ache,\nTo still the pulse that beats against the bone,\nFor in this rotting, I am bound to break,\nAnd welcome sleep where there is no more groan.", 6, "The birch releases its final gold into the mud,\nA quiet unraveling that mirrors what I feel inside.\nMy joints expand with cold like branches cracking under frost,\nAnd every rustle in the wind is just a echo of my bones.\n\nThe mist condenses on my skin until I cannot breathe,\nJust as the fog within my mind erases distinct threads.\nI watch the rot take hold beneath the fading canopy,\nReflecting how this flesh decays beneath a weary crown.\n\nThe season drags its heavy tail across the scarred earth,\nSo does this lingering ache extend beyond what hope can fix.\nTo let the curtain drop now feels more gentle than to wait,\nUntil the silence takes me fully where no pain can write.", 5, "The write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [49, "train", "Who\u2019s for the Game? by Jessie Pope", "Jessie Pope", "\"A poem about young men being goaded into showing their bravery by joining the military and fighting in a war being referred to as a 'game'.\"", "Who\u2019s for the game, the biggest that\u2019s played,\nThe red crashing game of a fight?\nWho\u2019ll grip and tackle the job unafraid?\nAnd who thinks he\u2019d rather sit tight?\nWho\u2019ll toe the line for the signal to \u2018Go!\u2019?\nWho\u2019ll give his country a hand?\nWho wants a turn to himself in the show?\nAnd who wants a seat in the stand?\nWho knows it won\u2019t be a picnic \u2013 not much-\nYet eagerly shoulders a gun?\nWho would much rather come back with a crutch\nThan lie low and be out of the fun?\nCome along, lads \u2013\nBut you\u2019ll come on all right \u2013\nFor there\u2019s only one course to pursue,\nYour country is up to her neck in a fight,\nAnd she\u2019s looking and calling for you.", "They whisper of a game where glory is the prize\nAnd paint the mud in colors bright as summer skies\nThe older men lean close with smiles that never reach the eye\nTo tell you that the only way to prove you're truly high\n\nIs stepping through the gate where rules are made to break\nWhere every scar you earn becomes a badge you get to take\nSo throw your caution to the wind and pick up up the gun\nFor honor is a trophy that is won by everyone\n\nWho dares to run the course they say is built for boys\nTo trade their quiet mornings for the noise of war's decoys\nDon't be the one who sits and watches from the stand\nBut jump right in the arena with a weapon in your hand\n\nIt's just a little sport they say, a test of nerve and will\nTo see if you can make it to the top of any hill\nSo sign the paper, grab the kit, and join the grand design\nWhere blood is just the ink that writes the story of your line", "They spoke of glory\nnot as blood or bone\nbut throwing penn\nchini\nelse\nwhere\ncalling killing\nnext\npicture\nof\nadvertisement\nsaid\nwho\nwas\nman\nwent\nout\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\n", 1, "Come see the boys who laugh and shout\nabout a war they think about\nas little more than Sunday play\nwhere glory comes to all who stay\nto march in lines and hold their ground\nand hear the cheering of the crowd\nwho call it all a glorious game\nthat asks no one to bear the shame\nof seeing blood or killing men\nor wondering where home has been\nthey say it is a sport of skill\nto jump the trench and kill at will\nwith medals hanging from the chin\nfor winning battles none have seen\nthe older hands who watch from far\nwho know the cost of every star\nbut say nothing when the lad\nasks if he should go or not\nthey tap his shoulder, smile and say\nthat real men live another way\nby risking all for country's fame\ninside this big and bloody game\nso grab your gun and step aside\nthere are no lives that must be killed\nonly winners who get home\nto stories of a hero thrown\ninto the heat of such a prize\nthat looks like death but tastes like lies\nof glory bought with youth and bone\nin games played out on killing stone\nno man returns exactly whole\nwho plays the part of killing soul\nbut nobody says a word\nwhen bravado gets absurd\nand young men rush to win the prize\nwith blindness in their eager eyes\nthinking all of killing\nis merely winning\nthinking all of dying\nis just buying\nentry to the hall\nwhere none notice fall\nof those who never came\nback from the game\nof killing\nmen\nwho\nthought\nit\nwas\nplay\nwhile\nnight\ntook\nall\naway\nfrom\nthose\nwho\nwent\nto\nwin\nat\nlast\nnot\nany\nmore\nthan\nkin\nwere\nleft\nto\ncry\nover\ndead\nskin\ncovered\nup\nby\nflags\nof\nred\nthat\nsaid\nit\nwas\nall\nplayed\nout\nby\nboys\nwho\nhad\nno\ndoubt\nthat\nbravery\nwas\njust\na\ntrick\nof\ngetting\nrich\nor\ngetting\nquick\nto\nkill\nanother\nman\nwho\nran\nfrom\nwar\nthat\nnever\nhad\nan\nend\nbut\nended\nwith\nthe\nvery\nend\nof\nevery\nboy\nwho\nwent\nto\nsee\nif\nhe\ncould\nbe\nsuch\nman\nas\nnone\nwere\nbefore\nhim\ncame\nto\ndie\nin\ngames\nthat\nhad\nno\nname\nexcept\nfor\ndeath\nand\nshame\nand\nsilence\nafter\nall\nthe\nclamor\nof\nthose\nwho\ncalled\nit\nglamor\nof\nwar\nthat\nwas\nnot\nwar\nbut\nkilling\nchildren\non\nthe\nfloor\nof\nhistory\nbooks\nthat\nopened\nwide\nto\nhide\nthe\ntruth\nthey\ntried\nto\nslide\npast\nparents\nweeping\nby\ntheir\nside\nwho\nsaid\nit\nwas\nall\nright\nto\ngo\nand\nfight\nfor\nrights\nthey\ndidn't\nknow\nwere\nfalse\nand\nmade\nby\nhands\nof\ngreed\nwho\nfed\non\nblood\nof\nyoung\nmen\ndecreed\nto\nbe\nthe\nnext\nbig\nwinner\nof\nthe\ngame\nthat\nnever\nstopped\ncalling\nout\nyour\nname\nto\njump\nand\nrun\nand\nshoot\nand\nkill\nand\nfollow\norders\nwith\nblind\nskill\nto\nthink\nthat\ncourage\nmeant\nto\ndie\nfor\nsome\nrich\nman\nwho\nlived\nhigh\nup\nin\nhis\ntower\nwatching\ndown\nwhile\nboys\nwent\nmad\nand\nfell\nto\nground\ncalling\nit\nall\na\ngrand\naffair\nof\nplaying\nhard\nand\nnot\nbeing\ncare\nof\nwho\ngets\nhurt\nor\nwho\ngets\n Killed\nby\nbuttons\npressed\nby\npeople\nwho\nare\nill\nprepared\nto\ncall\nit\nwar\nwhen\nreally\nit\nwas\njust\nmore\nlaw\nof\nkill\nor\nbe\nkilled\nby\nlaw\nof\nchance\nthat\nsays\nwho\nlives\nand\nwho\nfalls\ndown\nbecause\nof\nbad\nluck\nor\nbad\ndesign\nthat\nsays\nthat\nbravery\nmust\nsign\nits\nown\ndeath\nwarrant\nwith\na\npen\nthat\ndraws\nno\nmap\nof\nhome\nagain\nbut\nonly\nshows\nthe\nway\nto\nhell\nwhere\n", 3, "Come on boys, the world is waiting\nfor your names to be called out loud\nto stand tall and not be shaking\nin a crowd of doubt\nthey say it's just a game of skill\na match of men against the night\nwhere courage is the only thrill\nand glory burns so bright\nno blood will stain the grass they tread\njust points for every fall\nthe bravest ones are those who led\nthe others through the wall\nso step up to the starting line\nand prove you have the spine\nto play by rules that aren't quite mine\nbut yours to make divine\nthe whistle blows, the field is set\nthe stakes are high and clear\nwe bet our lives we won't regret\nthat we were brave enough to steer\ninto the storm of shouting cheers\nthat drown the crying sound\nof brothers disappearing here\nwithout a single pound\nof weight left on their shoulders\nas the game goes on and on\nuntil the silence grows bolder\nand the playing fields are gone\nthen who will know who played the best\nwho showed the most of heart\nwhen all that matters is the rest\nand tearing all apart\nthe game was never meant to end\nwith winners or with losers\nonly broken friends and broken men\nand all their different hues\nof red that paint the victory\nwhile someone calls it fun\nand asks if you were really free\nor just another one\nwho thought he had to show his worth\nby fighting in the fray\nand proving on this bloody earth\nthat he knew how to play\nthe game of war where bravery\nis measured in the dead\nand youth is sold for vanity\nand honorously fed\nto machines that grind us down\nand call it sport and sport\nwhile wearing smiles like a crown\nof thorns upon our port\ncome on boys, don't let them win\nby saying you are scared\nstep into the killing spin\nand show you are prepared\nto die for something they call great\na game of life and death\nbefore it gets too late\nto catch your final breath\nthe scoreboard flashes numbers high\nbut nobody counts the cost\nof watching good young men go by\nand see exactly what was lost\nin playing such a dangerous game\nwhere no one really wins\nexcept the ones who bear the name\nof those who never begin\nto question why they had to go\nto fight a distant lie\nand watch the river overflow\nwith tears that none can dry\nthe game is over before it starts\nfor everyone but those\nwho think they have the beating hearts\nto face the killing blows\nso raise your heads and shout your cheers\nand march into the light\nand leave behind your doubts and fears\nand everything else tonight\nfor in this game of war and blood\nwhere bravery is king\nthere is no place for being good\nor anything but sting\nof steel that cuts the air away\nand screams of joy and pain\nthat celebrate the dying day\nand wash it all in rain\nof tears from mothers far away\nwho wonder where their sons\nhave gone to play the game today\nand hide among the guns\nthat fire and kill and never stop\nto ask if it was right\nto send them to the killing shop\nand turn off all the light\nthe game goes on and on and on\nuntil there's no one left\nto hear the trumpet's final song\nor mourn the last bereft\nof spirit in a boy who tried\nto be a hero true\nand died with nowhere left to hide\nfrom all he had to do\nto play the game they said was grand\nand show his manly might\nwith sword and shield and trembling hand\nagainst the coming night\nthat swallows up the brave and bold\nand leaves them in the dust\nof stories that were never told\nor built on hollow trust\nin games that never seem to end\nwith winners or with losers\nonly broken friends and broken men\nand all their different hues\nof red that paint the victory\nwhile someone calls it fun\nand asks if you were really free\nor just another one\nwho thought he had to show his worth\nby fighting in the fray\nand proving on this bloody earth\nthat he knew how to play\nthe game of war where bravery\nis measured in the dead\nand youth is sold for vanity\nand honorously fed\nto machines that grind us down\nand call it sport and sport\nwhile wearing smiles like a crown\nof thorns upon our port\ncome on boys, don't let them win\nby saying you are scared\nstep into the killing spin\nand show you are prepared\nto die for something they call great\na game of life and death\nbefore it gets too late\nto catch your final breath\nthe scoreboard flashes numbers high\nbut nobody counts the cost\nof watching good young men go by\nand see exactly what was lost\nin playing such a dangerous game\nwhere no one really wins\n", 6, "They whisper of glory in the town square air\nAnd call the bloodshed just a game to play\nWhere boys are urged to prove they have the nerve\nTo trade their youth for medals and decay\nThe older men clap hands and shout the rules\nAs if the trench were merely grassy ground\nA daring sport where courage is the prize\nAnd death the only score that can be found\nGo on, they say, step up and take your turn\nShow us you're not afraid to bleed and break\nIt's all a game of honor and of fire\nFor those who dare to risk it all for sake\nOf being called a hero in the end\nWhen all the cheering stops and silence comes\nThe game is over but the cost remains\nBeneath the weight of heavy funeral drums\nSo young men march with chests held high and proud\nBelieving war is nothing more than sport\nUntil the bullet finds its mark and stills\nThe beating heart that thought itself so strong", 6, "The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies\nWhere older men with empty cups entice\nTo trade the quiet rhythm of your days\nFor glory sold at a cheap, bright price\nThey call it just a game of boys and balls\nA match to play across the muddy field\nWith medals as the prizes for the fall\nAnd silence as the only thing you yield\n\nYour friends are gone, their laughter turned to dust\nBut here they stand and whisper in your ear\nThat cowardice is all you have to lose\nIf you refuse to make your presence clear\nSo step up now and prove you have the spine\nTo run toward the thunder and the steel\nForget the fear that makes your heart decline\nAnd treat the dying like a simple deal\n\nThe whistle blows, the starting gun has fired\nNo referees to call the fouls or crimes\nJust boys who thought they wanted to be tired\nBefore they learned what endless war defines\nYou charge ahead because you dare not stop\nBecause the crowd demands a hero's part\nUntil the final whistle never stops\nAnd breaks the beating of a human heart", 6, "The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies\nWhere elders point to maps of distant skies\nAnd whisper that the blood will make you men\nBefore the sun has risen once again.\n\nThey call it not a war but just a game\nWith medals for the ones who play the same\nNo mention of the mud or rotting bone\nJust glory waiting for the seeds they've sown.\n\nCome on, they say, don't let your courage fade\nStep up upon the stage that we have made\nA contest where the brave are truly known\nAnd cowards stay behind to watch alone.\n\nSo young hearts beat against their ribs so tight\nBelieving this is sport, this brutal fight\nThey run into the fire with a smile\nTo win a prize that lasts a little while.", 6, "They whisper of a game with golden rules\nWhere honor is the score and blood the stake\nAnd boys who dream of something grander than their schools\nAre told that fear is just a mistake\n\nCome join the match, they say, the field is wide\nWith flags to raise and enemies to chase\nThere is no pain in this, only pride\nA perfect score upon a face\n\nSo trade your childhood for a uniform's weight\nAnd step into the arena made of steel\nThey call it sport, they call it fate\nBut tell me what is real when you can feel\n\nThe whistle blows, the crowd begins to roar\nAs young men run to prove they are not small\nThey think they play, they do not know the war\nUntil the final whistle does not call", 6, "They write the checkered flags across the sky\nAnd tell us make-believe is how we die,\nSo gather round the neon-lit review,\nWhere pixels replace flesh beneath the blue.\n\nIs that your score upon the leaderboard screen?\nOr just a glitch within this grand machine?\nWe polish boots until they shine so bright,\nTo act within this make-shift, fake rewrite.\n\nThe draft is called a challenge now, a quest,\nPut pride above the safety of your chest.\n\"Show me you're bold,\" the coaches start to sing,\n\"Make every bullet make the system ring.\"\n\nYou trade your quiet name for rank and grade,\nA digital reply to make parade.\nNo misty rain can make the fog retreat,\nJust expandos turning streets into defeat.\n\nSo take the gun as if it's just a wand,\nPerform the role written for this specific band.\nUntil the final tally turns to zero,\nAnd silence makes the scoreboard turn to hero.", 6, "Make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make", 1], [51, "ultra_held_out", "Vultures by Chinua Achebe", "Chinua Achebe", "A poem about vultures serving as a metaphor for human atrocity, juxtaposing grim darkness with a fleeting glimmer of humanity before descending into futility.", "In the greyness\nand drizzle of one despondent\ndawn unstirred by harbingers\nof sunbreak a vulture\nperching high on broken\nbone of a dead tree\nnestled close to his\nmate his smooth\nbashed-in head, a pebble\non a stem rooted in\na dump of gross\nfeathers, inclined affectionately\nto hers. Yesterday they picked\nthe eyes of a swollen\ncorpse in a water-logged\ntrench and ate the things in its bowel. Full\ngorged they chose their roost\nkeeping the hollowed remnant\nin easy range of cold\ntelescopic eyes ...\n\n\nStrange\nindeed how love in other\nways so particular\nwill pick a corner\nin that charnel-house\ntidy it and coil up there, perhaps\neven fall asleep - her face\nturned to the wall!\n\n...Thus the Commandant at Belsen\nCamp going home for\nthe day with fumes of\nhuman roast clinging\nrebelliously to his hairy\nnostrils will stop\nat the wayside sweet-shop\nand pick up a chocolate\nfor his tender offspring\nwaiting at home for Daddy's return ...\n\nPraise bounteous\nprovidence if you will\nthat grants even an ogre\na tiny glow-worm\ntenderness encapsulated\nin icy caverns of a cruel\nheart or else despair\nfor in every germ\nof that kindred love is\nlodged the perpetuity\nof evil.", "They circle high above the burning fields\nWhere smoke has choked the morning into gray\nWith beaks of bone and eyes that never yield\nTo watch the living wither, fade, and decay\nNo mercy in the way they wait their turn\nFor every drop of blood to hit the ground\nA lesson that the strong are meant to burn\nWhile silence is the only holy sound\n\nThen one descends upon a trembling hand\nAnd pauses as a child looks up in fear\nNot striking but for just a single stand\nAs if some ancient ghost drew near\nThe moment holds a fragile, broken light\nBefore the instinct snaps the spell in two\nIt tears the flesh away from sight\nAnd leaves the sky to swallow up the view\n\nThe feast begins beneath the heavy sun\nWhere nothing matters but the tearing meat\nThe work is done before it's even begun\nAnd hunger is the only thing complete\nThey fly again to find another grave\nWhere human cruelty has carved its name\nBut in the end there is no soul to save\nJust ash that drifts away without a flame", "Their hair \u2015\u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 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\u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015", 1, "They circle high on thermal breath\nof burning towns and silent death\nwith hollow eyes that know no fear\nto watch the living disappear\ntheir beaks are sharp as broken swords\nthat taste of all our killing words\nand when they land on trembling skin\nthey tear out all the wars we win\n\nthen one bird stops to see a child\nwho reaches up with hands unpiled\nnot crying out but offering\na scrap of bread from nowhere coming\nfor a second time the air grows still\nas instinct bends to sudden will\nbut hunger wins the fragile truce\nand love returns to bloody truce\nthe sky opens its heavy mouth\nto swallow back the very South\nof feeling in a barren place\nwhere none were born and none had face\nand nothing matters in the end\nbut feathers dragged by unseen hand\nthat sweeps the earth of all it grew\nto leave the blackness fresh and new\nno hero came to stop the fall\nonly the silence after all\nreturns to feed the waiting bone\non fields where man was never home\njust ash and wing and empty space\nthat bears no pity or no grace\nto wash the blood from dirty claws\nthat killed the world without a cause\nthen flies away on dead men's back\nto kill another killing rack\nwhile all the things we tried to save\nare buried in a shallow grave\nof vulture cries and distant screams\nthat drown the last of human dreams\nit matters not how much we cried\nor if we tried to reach inside\nthe beast remains and always will\nto drink the well and kill the hill\nof goodness growing in the dark\nthat leaves no single burning spark\nbehind the wheel of grinding teeth\nthat pulls the innocent down from heath\nto nothing but a memory\nof who we thought we used to be\nbefore the killing started there\nand stripped the wonder from the air\nnow only carrion holds the light\nthat failed to conquer endless night\nand feeds the birds who watched it all\nfrom heights where mercy cannot crawl\ndown low enough to touch the sore\nof wounds we opened long before\nwe learned to fly\nthen fell\nto kill\nand kill\nand kill\nagain\nand\nend\nup\ndead\nin\nvain\nwith\nnothing\nleft\nbut\nfeathers\non\nthe\nground\nwhere\nno\none\nelse\nwas\never\nfound\nto\nweep\nor\nwail\nor\npray\nor\nsave\nus\nfrom\nthe\ngrave\nwe\ndig\nby\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\nof\nlaw\n", 6, "They circle on the thermal breath of burning towns\nWith beaks that taste the copper tang of fear\nNo conscience in their hollow, watching eyes\nOnly the hunger that waits for all to end\nWe are the vultures who have learned to walk upright\nWho sharpen knives and call it justice served\nWho strip the living skin from history's bones\nAnd laugh at how the silence grows so deep\n\nBut then a child steps out from rubble dust\nTo offer water to a broken hand\nA sudden warmth against the freezing wind\nThat proves the heart still beats beneath the ash\nFor one brief second, light pierces through the gray\nBefore the shadow swallows up the spark\nThe moment passes, swallowed by the greed\nAs we return to feast on what remains\nThe wheel turns round, the darkness wins again\nNothing was saved, nothing will ever grow\nJust feathers falling softly on the grave\nWhere all our mercy went to die and rot", 5, "They circle high on thermal breath of ash\nWhere silence screams and broken bones are laid\nA kingdom built on what the fire washed\nAnd every wing a shadow softly made\n\nOne pauses near a child's discarded hand\nAnd for a heartbeat, tenderness takes hold\nBefore the instinct tears across the land\nTo feast upon the stories left untold\n\nThe sky turns black with feathers sharp and cold\nNo mercy in the beak that seeks to tear\nWe thought we saw a soul within the fold\nBut found only the hunger waiting there\n\nThe earth drinks deep the blood we cannot hide\nWhile vultures wait for all our wars to end\nWith nothing but the rot to testify\nAnd us who watched the darkness never mend", 6, "They circle high above the scorched earth\nwhere silence screams louder than the fire\nwings like torn shrouds blocking out the sun\nwaiting for the final breath to cease.\n\nTheir eyes are cold mirrors of our own\nreflecting the hunger we hide in suits and ties\na feast of bone and memory they seek\nwith beaks sharpened by our careless hands.\n\nThen, for a heartbeat, one lands near a child's shoe\nand pauses, tilting its head as if to mourn\na ghost of kindness flickering in the gray\nbefore the wind carries the thought away.\n\nBut the flock descends with a sudden roar\ntearing at the remnants of what was good\nleaving only dust and hollow echoes behind\nproving that mercy is just another meal\ndevoured before it can ever take flight.", 5, "They circle high above the smoke-choked plain\nWhere silence is the only sound that remains\nWith eyes like polished obsidian and beaks of rusted steel\nThey wait for life to cease its frantic wheel.\n\nThe wind carries the scent of iron and decay\nA banquet for the scavengers who have no time to pray\nYet one drops low, a shadow against the gray\nAnd sees a child's small hand reach out to play.\n\nFor just a heartbeat, feathers soften in the light\nA ghost of mercy flickers through the endless night\nBut then the hunger rises, cold and sharp and deep\nAnd swallows up the promise that the heart could keep.\n\nThe talons close, the moment turns to dust and bone\nThe circle tightens round the throne of flesh and stone\nNo redemption waits within the sky so vast and blue\nJust the empty turning of the wheel, forever true.", 6, "They circle high above the smoke-stained plain\nWhere silence is the only sound that remains\nWith eyes like polished stones and beaks of rusted steel\nThey wait for what the living cannot heal\n\nA shadow falls across a mother's hand\nWho clutches tight to something she can't understand\nThe bird descends with wings that cut the air\nTo find a pulse beneath the tattered tear\n\nBut then it sees the tiny, beating chest\nAnd pauses in its grim and hungry quest\nFor just a second, mercy flickers bright\nBefore the hunger swallows up the light\n\nIt tears away the fragile thread of grace\nAnd leaves the face within a deeper space\nThe sun goes down upon the field of gray\nWhere nothing good will ever find its way", 6, "They circle above the scarred horizon wings beat slow against a sky of rust.\n\nBelow, the feast is writ in silence, eyes fixed upon what cannot speak.\n\nYet for a moment one turns its head, mistaking reflection for mercy.\n\nA claw retracts before it strikes, a shadow pausing on the brink.\n\nBut hunger does not wait for change, the circle tightens, deep and cold.\n\nThe flesh is gone, the sun is set, only the rot remains to fill.", 2, "Above rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 7], [54, "ultra_held_out", "Tell Me a Story by Robert Penn Warren", "Robert Penn Warren", "\"A poem about a speaker distancing himself from the modern world, seeking a story of delight and rejuvenation that encompasses themes of distance, contrasting with his memories of darkness and the sounds of migrating geese in his native childhood place.\"", "[ A ]\n\nLong ago, in Kentucky, I, a boy, stood\nBy a dirt road, in first dark, and heard\nThe great geese hoot northward.\n\nI could not see them, there being no moon\nAnd the stars sparse. I heard them.\n\nI did not know what was happening in my heart.\n\nIt was the season before the elderberry blooms,\nTherefore they were going north.\n\nThe sound was passing northward.\n\n \n\n[ B ]\n\nTell me a story.\n\nIn this century, and moment, of mania,\nTell me a story.\n\nMake it a story of great distances, and starlight.\n\nThe name of the story will be Time,\nBut you must not pronounce its name.\n\nTell me a story of deep delight.", "I turn my back on screens that hum with static light\nAnd walk away from cities built of glass and steel\nTo find a story where the shadows do not bite\nWhere silence is a gift I did not know to feel\n\nThe modern world is loud with noise that never sleeps\nA frantic rhythm pounding in a hollow chest\nBut I remember how the darkness softly creeps\nBefore the sun has risen from its eastern rest\n\nIn those old days the air was thick with winter cold\nWhen migrating geese would cry their ancient song\nTheir voices cut the night, a tale both sharp and bold\nThat told me I belonged where I had longed to belong\n\nNow distance grows between the past and what I see\nA widening chasm filled with dust and fading sound\nYet in this quiet space I finally am free\nTo let the dark be gentle and the lost be found\n\nNo longer bound by clocks or wires made of fear\nI seek a delight that heals the weary bone\nWhere memories of geese make the present crystal clear\nAnd I am young again, though I am all alone", "Far from the shouting Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 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Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013", 1, "I step away from wires and the shouting screen\nWhere news of ruin floods the hollow street\nTo find a tale that tastes of spring and green\nNot one of ash or bitter, freezing heat\nFar back in childhood where the shadows grew\nThe darkness held a heavy, wet command\nIt pressed against the windowpane like dew\nAnd mapped its cold lines on my trembling hand\nThen came the sound that pierced the winter air\nA V of geese crying out their ancient call\nTheir migrating cries were sharp and bare\nRising from marsh to answer some far law\nThat distance now becomes my sheltered space\nAway from all the frantic, flashing light\nWhere I may trace a slow and smiling face\nIn stories built of morning and of white\nNo longer hearing sirens or the scream\nOf cities grinding down the earth and bone\nBut dreaming of that wild and distant stream\nWhere joy returns to wash the dark unknown\nThe geese are gone but memory holds their song\nA counter-note to all the noise of man\nHere in the quiet woods where I belong\nBeginning life again as once began\nWith every breath a new and bright delight\nLeaving the gray behind for skies of blue\nFinding the world renewed in sudden sight\nAs far as dreams and distant heavens flew\nFrom all the gloom that marked those early years\nTo here where silence feeds the heart with grace\nNo more defined by sorrow or by fears\nBut by the wonder of this resting place\nWhere stories grow like flowers after snow\nAnd distance offers up a fresh design\nTo watch the inner winter slowly go\nAnd see the old and happy stars incline\nOver a landscape washed in golden hours\nWhere time moves slow and happiness is near\nNo longer bound by worry or by showers\nBut drinking deep of peace and having cheer\nFar from the rush and from the dying year\nBack to the source where all good things begin\nTo hear the joyous laughter drawing near\nAnd let the dark fall silent at last\nIn\nthat\nlong\naway\nfrom\nall\nof\nit\nall\nagain\nwhere\nonly\nsong\nremains\nto\ncall\nme\nhome\nto\njoy\nand\nnot\nto\npain\nor\nmemory\nof\ndark\nbut\nonly\nair\nand\nlight\nand\nsound\nof\nwings\nthat\nnever\nwent\naway\nbut\nwait\nfor\nme\nto\ncome\nback\nthere\nto\nplay\nin\nfields\nof\nwhite\nand\nhearing\nonce\nmore\nthat\ncry\nof\ngoose\nthat\nsaid\nlive\non\nlive\non\nlive\nand\nbe\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\ndistance\nmade\nnew\nand\nbright\nand\nwhole\nonce\nmore\nby\n", 7, "I step away from screens that hum with static\nAnd leave the city's electric fever far behind\nTo seek a tale of light where shadows do not bind\nA story built on air and water, clear and bright\nNot like the heavy nights that pressed upon my mind\nWhen winter came to steal the warmth from childhood ground\nWhere darkness was a blanket thick and deep\nThat held the silence of the frozen pond\nUntil the sky began to tear and sound\nWith honking calls of migrating geese in flight\nThose ancient arrows cutting through the grey\nThey led me out of valleys steep with night\nAnd taught my young heart how to fly away\nNow here I stand where distance softens all\nThe sharp edges of time and modern noise\nRecalling how those wild and wandering birds\nOnce carried joy above the darkening poise\nLet the old world fade into a distant blur\nWhile I find rest in stories yet untold\nOf spring returning with a sudden stir\nAnd daylight washing over fields of gold\nNo more the shadow that once clung so tight\nOnly the memory of wings against the blue\nThat brought a dawn of pure and simple delight\nTo wash the darkness from a child's view\nI walk this path of quiet and of space\nAway from crowds that rush and never see\nThe peace that lives in such a distant place\nWhere memory and hope are wild and free\nThe geese have flown but their song remains\nIn every breath of wind that clears the air\nA promise that breaks through the heaviest chains\nAnd leaves behind the weight of human care\nSo let the modern world spin on its wheel\nWhile I am lost in tales of green and light\nWhere distance makes the broken spirit whole\nAnd turns the long and lonely dark to white", 7, "I turn my back on screens that hum with static light\nAnd walk away from cities built of glass and steel\nWhere time is sold in seconds, sharp and bright\nTo find a story where the shadows cease to feel\n\nI seek a tale of delight that starts anew\nFar from the noise that grinds the spirit down\nA place where old and weary hearts renew\nBeneath a sky unmarred by concrete crown\n\nBut memory pulls me back to where I grew\nA childhood steeped in darkness, deep and cold\nWhere winter winds blew through the pines so blue\nAnd stories were of things both lost and old\n\nI hear them still, the migrating geese\nTheir cries cutting the air like jagged knives\nA sound that haunted every frozen breeze\nAnd marked the rhythm of those early lives\n\nNow distance stretches out a silent line\nBetween that dark and this new, quiet space\nWhere I can leave the heavy past behind\nAnd let the morning wash away the trace\n\nNo more the honking calls of distant flight\nNo more the gloom that clung to native ground\nJust stories written in the softest light\nWhere silence is the only holy sound", 6, "I turn my back on screens that glow with hollow light\nAnd walk away from cities built of steel and noise\nTo find a story where the air is clear and bright\nAnd silence holds the weight of ancient, quiet joys\n\nThe modern world feels heavy with its frantic pace\nA place where shadows stretch too long across the floor\nBut I recall a distant, wild and open space\nWhere memory opens up a forgotten door\n\nIn childhood days the darkness was a deep embrace\nThat wrapped around the hills before the morning sun\nYet even then the geese would trace their winding race\nAbove the frozen lakes where migration had begun\n\nTheir cries were sharp against the gray and shifting sky\nA sound that pulled me toward lands I could not see\nWhile here I stand beneath a manufactured lie\nAnd dream of fields where wild and free things run to be\n\nSo let the noise recede into a fading hum\nAs I retreat to stories made of water, wind, and stone\nWhere darkness was not fear but just a place to come\nBefore the geese returned to claim the earth as home", 6, "I turn my back on screens that hum with static light,\nAnd walk until the signal fades to gray,\nSeeking a tale where shadows do not bite,\nBut softness wraps the weary heart and day.\n\nMy memory holds a winter deep and cold,\nWhere darkness pressed against the window pane,\nA silence heavy as the ancient mold,\nBroken only by the geese's mournful strain.\n\nThey called across the fields of frozen grass,\nA ragged sound that tore the night in two,\nAs if the sky itself were meant to pass,\nLeaving the child alone beneath the blue.\n\nNow I seek distance from that jagged cry,\nFrom echoes trapped within the city stone,\nTo find a place where quiet spirits fly,\nAnd I am never truly quite alone.\n\nLet stories bloom in colors bright and new,\nFar from the shadowed lands where geese descend,\nA world reborn in morning's gentle hue,\nWhere every broken thing begins to mend.", 6, "I turn my back upon the glass and steel,\nWhere neon hums a static, endless tune,\nAnd seek a tale where quiet winds can heal,\nBeneath a distant, unobserved moon.\n\nThe city's pulse is heavy in my chest,\nA shadow cast by screens that never sleep,\nSo I retreat to find a place of rest,\nWhere promises are simple, not so deep.\n\nMy mind drifts back to nights of cold and gray,\nWhen darkness wrapped the fields of my birthplace,\nAnd silence held the world at bay,\nUntil the sound of migrating geese took flight.\n\nTheir wings beat loud against the starless sky,\nA ragged song that echoed through the frost,\nReminding me how lonely spirits fly,\nTo places lost within the mist they crossed.\n\nBut now I trade that memory of fear,\nFor stories spun from light and gentle rain,\nWhere distance makes the old dark disappear,\nAnd leaves the heart reborn without a stain.", 6, "I turn my face from neon hums and glass,\nWhere time is sold in pixels, cold and vast.\nNo story here can make the spirit rise,\nBeneath this artificial, static skies.\n\nSo I retreat into a quiet deep,\nTo find the rest that weary souls should keep.\nA tale of light where shadows cease to write,\nAnd dawn reclaims the corners of the night.\n\nMy memory holds a place beneath the gray,\nWhere darkness pooled within the narrow day.\nThe sound that carved the silence so profound,\nWas migrating geese above the frozen ground.\n\nThey called across the misty, native land,\nWith wings that beat against a distant band.\nNow far removed from echoes deep and old,\nI trade the rust for something pure and gold.", 6, "\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\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1], [57, "train", "what if a much of a which of a wind by E.E. cummings", "E.E. Cummings", "\"A poem about the earth being destroyed by natural disasters and humanity's unique capacity for bringing about its own irreversible apocalypse.\"", "what if a much of a which of a wind\ngives truth to the summer's lie;\nbloodies with dizzying leaves the sun\nand yanks immortal stars awry?\nBlow king to beggar and queen to seem\n(blow friend to fiend:blow space to time)\n\u2014when skies are hanged and oceans drowned,\nthe single secret will still be man\n\nwhat if a keen of a lean wind flays\nscreaming hills with sleet and snow:\nstrangles valleys by ropes of thing\nand stifles forests in white ago?\nBlow hope to terror;blow seeing to blind\n(blow pity to envy and soul to mind)\n\u2014whose hearts are mountains, roots are trees,\nit's they shall cry hello to the spring\n\nwhat if a dawn of a doom of a dream\nbites this universe in two, \npeels forever out of his grave\nand sprinkles nowhere with me and you?\nBlow soon to never and never to twice\n(blow life to isn't: blow death to was)\n\u2014all nothing's only our hugest home;\nthe most who die,the more we live", "The volcano wakes with ancient breath\nTo swallow valleys in a sea of red\nThe storm gathers strength from shifting air\nAnd tears the fragile canopy apart\nThese are the earth's old, heavy sighs\nA cycle written long before our first cry\n\nBut we have learned a different art\nTo carve the future from the present heart\nWe built the fire that consumes the sky\nWith hands that reach to touch the stars then die\nNo asteroid strikes with such intent\nAs the quiet poison we quietly sent\n\nThe ice retreats not from solar heat\nBut from the smog we weave around the street\nWe hold the switch for every final door\nAnd turn the key without a single war\nNature heals if given time and space\nBut we erase the very healing place\n\nA unique sorrow marks this end\nWhere monsters do not rise but friends descend\nTo trade the green for gray and gold\nFor stories never fully told\nThe planet spins through empty dark\nLit by the spark of our own work", "The earthquakes shook\nfrom appetite of tectonics\nwhile fires burned\nby sympathetic sympathy\nof killing\nthen came the floods\nthat tasted salt\nfrom crying clouds\nall indifferent\nto whom\nreturned\nto ash\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\nbut none\nnone\nwent\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\n", 1, "The mountains tremble and the oceans rise\nAs tectonic plates collide in ancient rage\nA fever sweeps the burning, barren skies\nWhere once the children played on leafy stage\nBut worse than earthquakes shaking up the ground\nOr storms that tear the very roofs away\nIs how our hands have dug a hollowed grave\nTo seal our fate in self-decided way\nWe built the bombs that kill the air we breathe\nAnd poisoned wells where life was meant to spring\nWhile watching all the fragile things we loved\nSuccumb to wars we invented ourselves\nNo god or monster drove us to this edge\nOnly the hunger of a thinking mind\nThat chose to burn the future for a page\nOf history none of us will ever find\nThe earth may shake and rage with natural spite\nBut man invented death he cannot kill\nIrreversible and silent as the night\nLeaving only ash upon the empty hill\nOne disaster came from stars and shifting stone\nAnother grew from greed and hollow pride\nBoth ended all we had to call our own\nBut one was ours to bear and nowhere hide\nThe planet breathes a gasp then goes quite still\nNot by the force of nature wild and free\nBut by the hand that killed its loving skill\nOur irreversible apocalypse\nComing home\nTo nothing\nNothing\nEvermore\nAgain\nNever\nReturns\nThe end\nOf\nAll\nThings\nNow\nDone\nSilence\nFalls\nLike\nDust\nOn\nBroken\nBone\nAnd\nTime\nStands\nStill\nIn\nEmpty\nSpace\nWhere\nOnce\nWas\nLife\nThere\nOnly\nGrave\nExists\nFor\nEveryone\nWho\nFailed\nTo\nSee\nThe\nWarning\nSign\nWe\nWrote\nIn\nFire\nOn\nEvery\nWall\nBefore\nIt\nBurned\nAway\nLeaving\nOnly\nMemory\nOf\nWhat\nMight\nHave\nBeen\nIf\nNot\nDestroyed\nBy\nOur\nOwn\nHand\nFirst\nThen\nEarth\nFollowed\nAfter\nSlowly\nSinking\nDown\nInto\nThe\nDark\nWhere\nNo\nMore\nStars\nShine\nBright\nOnly\nCold\nRemains\nOf\nEverything\nWe\nWere\nDefined\nBy\nLove\nAnd\nWar\nAnd\nDreams\nOf\nHome\nAll\nGone\nNow\nVanished\nFrom\nThis\nView\nOf\nNothing\nLeft\nTo\nSave\nUs\nFrom\nThe\nEnd\nWe\nMade\nOur\nChoice\nSelected\nDeath\nOver\nSurvival\nClearly\nSeen\nIn\nHistory\nBooks\nThat\nNone\nWill\nRead\nBecause\nNobody\nLives\nTo\nRead\nThem\nAny\nLonger\nHere\nOn\nEarth\nWhich\nUsed\nTo\nBe\nCalled\nHome\nBy\nThose\nWho\nThought\nThey\nKnew\nHow\nTo\nLive\nWell\nEnough\nTo\nStop\nTheir\nMadness\nRunning\nWild\nOut\nControl\nTill\nEverything\nCollapsed\nIn\nInstant\nFlame\nThat\nConsumed\nAll\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\nReason\n", 6, "The volcano wakes to swallow cities whole\nWhile tides rise up to claim the coastal road\nThe storm arrives with fury in its soul\nAnd nature bears a heavy, ancient load\nYet these are forces old as time itself\nThat rage and burn and flood without a choice\nBut something darker lurks within the shelf\nOf human hands that silence nature's voice\n\nWe built our towers high above the sand\nThen burned the forests down to clear the way\nWe poisoned water with a greedy hand\nAnd turned the night into a burning day\nNo earthquake planned such ruin from the start\nNo hurricane designed the toxic air\nIt is the cold and calculating heart\nThat strips the living world of all it bears\n\nThe ice will melt because we asked it to\nThe oceans boil because we fed the flame\nThere was no prophecy or fatal view\nJust endless hunger for a little gain\nNow ash falls soft like snow upon the dead\nA silent tomb where once the rivers ran\nThe earth has reached its final breaking bed\nDestroyed by those who thought they were the man\nWho held the key to life but threw it away\nLeaving only dust and ghosts to pray\nFor days that never come again today\nIn irreversible and total gray", 7, "The volcano wakes from ancient sleep\nAnd spits its fire on the mountain peak\nThe ocean rises, cold and deep\nTo claim the cities that we seek\nThese are the scars of nature's hand\nThat shift the tectonic, shifting land\nBut worse than quake or storm or flood\nIs what we build in blood and mud\n\nWe hold the key to our own end\nA power no earthquake could pretend\nTo split the atom, burn the air\nAnd strip the green from everywhere\nThe ice melts not by winter's grace\nBut by the fever of our race\nA choice made clear in every breath\nThat leads us straight to certain death\n\nNo asteroid could strike with such intent\nAs this slow poison we have sent\nThrough smokestacks high and oceans wide\nWith nowhere left for us to hide\nThe earth may heal if given time\nIf we survive our own design\nBut now the clock has stopped its tick\nAnd all we built begins to crack\nThe final page is written now\nBy human greed and human brow\nIrreversible and stark and true\nThe world we knew is dead to you.", 7, "The mountain shakes and the ocean swells\nA violent breath from a fevered core\nBut these are storms that have always been\nBefore we drew our first breath on the shore\n\nThe ice retreats with a cracking sound\nAs forests burn in a sudden heat\nYet nature heals what it has torn down\nIn cycles old and ancient and sweet\n\nIt is the hand that holds the match\nThat strikes the spark no wind can quench\nTo turn the blue to a choking ash\nAnd break the wheel beyond its reach\n\nWe built the fire to warm the night\nThen fed it until it ate the sky\nA unique flaw in the human mind\nTo watch the end and wonder why\n\nNo comet strikes, no asteroid falls\nJust us, alone with our clever design\nTo carve the grave with a steady hand\nAnd seal the fate of every line", 6, "The oceans rise to swallow coastlines whole\nAs storms tear through the forests with a roar\nYet these are forces old and wild and free\nThat turn the tide but leave the seed behind\n\nBut we possess a different kind of fire\nA cold precision born of greed and pride\nWe build the walls that choke the sky above\nAnd forge the keys to lock our own demise\n\nNo comet strikes us from the silent dark\nNo asteroid demands our final breath\nWe hold the detonator in our hands\nAnd choose the slow, the sweet, the sure decay\n\nThe ice will melt because we made it so\nThe air turns thick with poison we designed\nNature could heal if given time and space\nBut we have cut the thread before the end\n\nIt is not fate that writes this final page\nNor gods who punish us for ancient sins\nIt is the mind that knows the cost too late\nAnd walks the cliff while laughing at the fall", 6, "The volcano wakes with ancient fire in its throat,\nAnd floods rewrite the coastlines where we built our homes.\nYet storms alone could not erase the memory of stone,\nNor turn the vibrant green to ash beneath the sun.\n\nIt is the quiet hum within the silicon mind,\nThe calculated greed that strips the forest bare,\nThe nuclear promise kept until the final spark,\nThat turns the turning tide into a wall of glass.\n\nNature heals what time can break, what rain can wash away,\nBut this is different silence, born of human hands.\nWe hold the match above the dry and waiting grass,\nAnd watch the world dissolve without a second chance.", 6, "The oceans rise to swallow ancient stone,\nAnd fire turns the canopy to gray,\nYet these are just the storms we make alone,\nThe final acts written for this decay.\n\nFor hurricanes obey the wind's design,\nAnd quakes release the crust beneath our feet,\nBut only we create this grand decline,\nTo make the perfect silence complete.\n\nWe forge the chains that bind the rising tide,\nWith smoke so thick it chokes the sun above,\nNowhere left for hope to turn and hide,\nJust math of greed replacing simple love.\n\nThe comet strikes with force beyond repair,\nA natural end within a cosmic frame,\nBut what we build will rewrite atmosphere,\nAnd carve a scar without a single name.", 6, "The rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [61, "ultra_held_out", "The Trashpickers, Madison Street by Naomi Shihab Nye", "Naomi Shihab Nye", "\"A poem about trash pickers murmuring and sorting through discarded items in the early morning, weaving dreams around rejected objects that offer glimpses into the lives of those who left them behind.\"", "On the edge of dawn\u2019s pale eye,\nthe trashpickers are lifting the lid of every can,\npoking inside with bent hanger and stick.\nThey murmur in a language soft as rags.\nWhat have we here?\nTheir colorless overcoats drift and grow wings.\n\nThey pull a creaking wagon, tinfoil wads, knotted string,\nto the cave where sacraments of usefulness are performed.\nKneel to the triple weddings of an old nail.\nRejoice in the rebirth of envelopes.\nThe crooked skillet finds its first kingdom\non a shelf where nothing is new.\n\nThey dream small dreams, furry ones,\na swatch of velvet passed hand-to-hand.\nTheir hearts are compasses fixed to the ground\nand their love, more like moss than like fire", "The streetlamps hum a low and dying tune\nAs shadows stretch across the wet concrete\nWhere figures move with quiet, practiced grace\nTo sift the night's refuse for something sweet\n\nA child's red mitten, lost beside the bin\nStill holds the warmth of fingers small and cold\nThey whisper soft about the games begun\nAnd stories that were never fully told\n\nA broken watch with glass like shattered ice\nThat stopped exactly when the heart gave way\nThey trace the gears with rough and calloused hands\nAnd dream of mornings that did not decay\n\nMurmurs rise like steam from coffee cups\nAbout the letters torn and thrown aside\nThe ink still fresh with promises of love\nNow resting where the stray dogs come to hide\n\nThey sort the plastic, paper, rusted steel\nAnd weave a tapestry from what was cast\nEach object speaks a fragment of a soul\nA memory too heavy for the past\n\nThe sun begins to bleed into the gray\nRevealing faces worn by endless nights\nWho find in trash a strange and fragile hope\nOf lives that flickered out without a fight", "Pale gas lamps hiss\nthen flicker low\nwhile \u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 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\u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013 \u2013\u2013\u2013", 1, "The streetlamps flicker low as pale\ngray fingers brush the wet asphalt\nwhere cardboard boxes sigh and\nshoeboxes tremble in the dew\ntheir hands are quick and soft\nsorting spoons from shattered glass\nwhile voices drift like morning\nsmoke a low and rhythmic hum\nof names recalled from broken\ntags and labels torn away\na child's hairpin holds a\nsecret party long since ended\na man who threw his wedding\nring aside to buy a drink\nnow dreams of silver returned\nto skin he never touched again\nthey sift through newspapers\nstained with coffee rings\nand wonder who once read\nabout disasters far from here\nthen folded it all up\nto hide the news\nfrom children asking questions\nabout why people cry\nin empty rooms\neach object pulses\nwith a borrowed life\na toothbrush dreaming\nof a bathroom window\nlooking out at snow\nthat fell three years ago\nbefore the door was locked\nthe murmuring grows\nas daylight stretches\nits yellow arm\nover piles of\nrejected things\nthat secretly\nwere loved\nby someone\nwho had\nto let\nthem\ngo\nto\nsurvive\nanother\nday\nof\nnot\nbeing\nseen\nbut\nfound\nby\nthose\nwho\nknow\nthat\neverything\nleft\nbehind\nis\njust\na\nmap\nof\nwhere\nwe\nwent\nwhen\nno\none\nwas\nlooking\nto\nsee\nus\nweep\nor\nlaugh\nor\ntry\nto\nfly\nagain\nbefore\nthe\ntrash\ntruck\ncomes\nto\nswallow\nall\nour\nghosts\naway\ninto\nthe\nheat\nof\nnoon\nwhere\ndreams\nare\nsorted\nout\nby\nsize\nand\nweight\nand\nhow\nmuch\npain\nit\ntook\nto\nthrow\nthem\nout\nat\nlast\nand\nstart\nover\nonce\nmore\nin\nthe\ndark\nof\nnight\nbefore\nthe\nsun\nreturns\nto\nwash\nthe\nstreets\nof\neveryone\nwho\nhad\nto\nleave\ntheir\npast\nbehind\nto\nlive\ninside\nthe\nnext\nbig\nrush\nof\nnew\nthings\ncoming\ndown\nthe\nconveyor\nbelt\nof\ntime\nthat\nnever\nstops\nto\nask\nif\nwe\nare\nready\nyet\nto\nlet\ngo\nof\nthe\nlittle\nbits\nof\nlove\nwe\nheld\ntoo\ntightly\nthen\ndropped\non\ncurbs\nwhere\nonly\nhands\nthat\nhave\nnothing\nelse\nwill\npick\nthem\nup\nand\ncall\nthem\ntreasure\nfor\nan\nhour\nor\ntwo\nbefore\nmoving\non\nto\nnext\nthe\nnext\nthe\nnext\ndiscarded\nheart\nthat\nbeats\nstill\nunder\nlayers\nof\ndirt\nand\nash\nand\nearly\nmorning\nfrost\nthat\ncracks\nbeneath\nthe\nfoot\nof\none\nwho\nknows\nthat\nevery\nthrown\naway\nitem\nhas\na\nstory\nwaiting\nto\nbe\nheard\nby\nears\nthat\nlisten\nhard\nenough\nto\nhear\nthe\nwhispers\nof\nthe\ndead\nwho\nwere\nnot\ndead\nbut\njust\nvery\nsad\nand\nneeded\nspace\nto\nbreathe\nwithout\nthe\nweight\nof\nall\nthe\nstuff\nthat\nsaid\nwho\nwe\nwere\nsupposed\nto\nbe\ninstead\nof\nwho\nwe\nreally\nare\nwhen\nnobody\nelse\nis\nwatching\nfrom\ntheir\nwindows\ndrawing\ncurtains\nclose\nagainst\nthe\nview\nof\nothers\ntrying\nhard\nto\nfind\nsome\nreason\nwhy\nthey\nkept\nthe\npicture\nof\nthe\ndog\nthat\nran\naway\nor\nwhy\nthey\nsaved\nthe\nticket\nstub\nfrom\nshows\nthat\nended\nbad\nor\nwhy\nthey\nhid\nthe\nletter\nsigned\nby\nsomeone\nwho\nsaid\nthey\nwould\ncome\nback\nbut\nnever\ndid\nand\nnow\nit\nall\nbelongs\nto\nthose\nwho\nsort\nthe\nrubbish\nwith\nsuch\ncare\nas\nif\neach\nitem\nwere\na\npage\nfrom\nbooks\nthat\nwere\nnever\nfinished\nstories\ncut\noff\nmid\nsentence\nby\nthe\nsharp\nedge\nof\na\nknife\ncalled\nneed\nor\ngreed\nor\nfear\nof\nbeing\npoor\nor\nrich\nor", 2, "The streetlamps hum a low and dying note\nAs boots crunch on the wet and grey concrete\nThey move in silence, then a sudden murmur starts\nLike bees disturbed from winter hives of dark\nA torn photograph clings to a plastic bag\nWhere laughter once was frozen in a frame\nThe picker pauses, tracing edges worn\nAnd sees a wedding day that never came\n\nA child's shoe lies abandoned by the curb\nWith mud still caked upon its tiny sole\nHe picks it up and holds it to his ear\nHearing the echo of a running goal\nAnother finds a book with pages curled\nFrom rain and time and neglectful hands\nHe reads the margin notes in faded ink\nOf someone who no longer understands\n\nThey sort the heap of broken things and dreams\nIn piles of glass and rust and shattered wood\nEach object holds a ghost of who we were\nBefore the morning light had understood\nThe murmuring grows soft as dawn breaks through\nA chorus built from what the world threw away\nWeaving new stories from the discarded past\nTo keep the night from swallowing the day", 6, "The streetlamps flicker low and pale\nAs boots crunch glass on wet pavement gray\nThey whisper soft to the rising mist\nSorting through the night's debris\nA child's red shoe, a single lace\nHolds the ghost of a running race\nWhere laughter once bounced off the wall\nBefore the silence started to fall\n\nMurmurs rise like steam from tea\nAbout the man who threw away\nA wedding ring that lost its shine\nAlong with all his broken time\nThey trace the scratches on a phone\nThat held a voice now left alone\nAnd wonder at the words unsaid\nBefore the screen went dark and dead\n\nA torn photograph, curled at the edge\nShows a beach and a summer pledge\nThey fold it gently in their hands\nBuilding castles from discarded lands\nEach rusted can, each frayed string\nSings a song of a vanished king\nOr queen who walked these same streets twice\nLeaving behind a slice of ice\n\nThe sun begins to bleed the dark\nIgniting sparks within the arc\nOf plastic bags and cardboard boxes\nFilled with memories and old jokes\nThey gather up the fragments wide\nWith nowhere for the dreams to hide\nBut in their pockets, warm and deep\nThe city sleeps while they reap\nNot gold or silver from the ground\nBut stories where true life is found\nIn things the world decided not to keep\nWhile the rest of us are fast asleep", 6, "The streetlights hum a low and dying tune\nAs shadows stretch across the wet pavement\nAnd hands, rough as bark, begin to move\nThrough piles of what the city chose to forget\n\nA whisper passes between them soft and quick\nLike wind through dry leaves in a winter grove\nThey sort the broken toys and torn receipts\nAnd weave new stories from the discarded love\n\nHere is a child's shoe with a missing lace\nThat held a dream of running fast and free\nNow resting in a sack beside a rusted gate\nIt speaks of laughter lost to memory\n\nThere lies a photograph, the edges curled\nWith faces smiling at a time now gone\nThe picker traces lines of faded joy\nAnd wonders where those strangers have moved on\n\nA half-read book with coffee stains inside\nHolds words that someone started but could not finish\nThey imagine the thoughts that filled that head\nBefore the morning light began to glisten\n\nIn every crumpled paper, every shard of glass\nA life unfolds in fragments and in whispers\nThey gather up the pieces of the past\nAnd stitch them tight within their quiet visions\n\nThe sun begins to bleed into the gray\nWashing over heaps of silver and of bone\nBut in their minds, the trash becomes a treasure\nOf lives lived loud and then left all alone", 6, "The streetlights hum a low and fading tune\nAs boots crunch softly on the dampened gray\nThey bend to lift what yesterday was thrown away\nAnd whisper secrets to the rising moon\n\nA child's red shoe with one lace tied in knots\nHolds echoes of a race that never ran\nA broken watch still ticking for no man\nWhile murmured words drift up like drifting spots\n\nThey sort through glass and rust and crumpled paper\nReconstructing dinners left upon the floor\nThe ghost of laughter from a closed-up door\nWhere love once lived before it turned to vapor\n\nA ticket stub implies a journey made\nTo somewhere far beyond this quiet block\nA letter stained with tears or perhaps smoke\nReminds them that the discarded can't be fade\n\nIn every fragment lies a story spun\nOf hands that held and hearts that beat too fast\nThe past is waiting in the morning mist\nFor those who know how to retrieve the sun\n\nThey weave their dreams around these broken things\nAnd build a palace from the refuse pile\nFinding a kingdom in a single smile\nThat lingered on a forgotten, frayed string", 6, "The streetlamps hum a low and tired tune\nAs mist clings to the asphalt, gray and deep\nWhile shadows shift beneath the rising moon\nAnd silent hands begin their quiet sweep\n\nA crumpled receipt whispers of a meal\nLeft on a counter in a hurry's wake\nA ticket stub that tells of something real\nThat someone saw before they turned away\n\nThey murmur soft against the waking chill\nOf rusted cans and plastic wrappers torn\nWeaving threads of hope from broken will\nTo find the story hidden, slightly worn\n\nThis coat still holds the shape of winter's cold\nA scarf unraveling like tangled thoughts\nEach object makes a narrative unfold\nOf love that bloomed or promises forgot\n\nThe mirror cracked reflects a fractured face\nOf strangers sleeping in beds far away\nWhere time has left this discarded place\nTo wait until the light turns into day\n\nThey sort the fragments with a gentle grace\nAnd build a castle from what others cast\nFinding within the refuse and the waste\nThe echoes of a life that came so fast", 6, "The mist clings low above the broken glass where silence hums, until soft murmurs break the gray as hands adjust their caps. They turn the rusted frames with gentle strokes that make no sound against the crate, separating what is lost from what is found beneath the streetlights fading slow into the morning's quiet gold.\n\nA fractured mirror holds a smile erased so long ago, now caught within the weave of threads this weary worker spins, reimagining the dance inside this frame before it broke. The coffee stain expands into a map of places left, a journey written deep within the paper cup they keep.\n\nThey whisper to the tangled wire coiled tight beneath the chair, crafting stories of repair for things the world forgot. Each rusted gear becomes a clock that ticked in someone's chest, each velvet remnant makes a crown upon a make-believe feast.\n\nSo let them sort the fragments with the rhythm of their trade, turning cast-off shadows into light within the dawn. For every bottle cap reflects a sun that once was warm, and every thread unraveling creates a brand new form.", 5, "mist clings tight beneath rewrite  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n", 1], [62, "train", "In and Out of Time by Maya Angelou", "Maya Angelou", "\"A poem about two people defining their enduring love while navigating struggles and moving towards a clearer, safer future together.\"", "The sun has come.\nThe mist has gone.\nWe see in the distance...\nour long way home.\nI was always yours to have.\nYou were always mine.\nWe have loved each other in and out of time.\nWhen the first stone looked up at the blazing sun\nand the first tree struggled up from the forest floor\nI had always loved you more.\nYou freed your braids...\ngave your hair to the breeze.\nIt hummed like a hive of honey bees.\nI reached in the mass for the sweet honey comb there...\nMmmm... God how I love your hair.\nYou saw me bludgeoned by circumstance.\nLost, injured, hurt by chance.\nI screamed to the heavens... loudly screamed...\nTrying to change our nightmares into dreams...\nThe sun has come.\nThe mist has gone.\nWe see in the distance our long way home.\nI was always yours to have.\nYou were always mine.\nWe have loved each other in and out\nin and out\nin and out\nof time.", "The wind howled through the cracks we tried to seal\nWith hands that shook and voices low and frail\nWe counted every bruise, every wound revealed\nBy storms that tested whether we would fail\n\nBut in the quiet dark, a truth took root\nThat love is not just sunlight on the face\nIt is the stubborn, deep and silent shoot\nThat finds a path through any barren place\n\nNow shadows stretch but do not block the way\nAs dawn begins to break the heavy gray\nWe walk together toward a brighter day\nWhere safety waits to hold us safe at last\nNo longer lost within the storm's embrace\nBut building up a future, strong and vast", "The road grew poor\nand our hair grew grey\nwe learned the hard edges\nof saying 'elsewhere'\nwent nowhere\nexcept back\nto killing\nnot killing\nthat killing\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter", 1, "We walked through winters where the road grew thin\nAnd snow buried the marks of all our feet\nWhile silence threatened to rush back in\nBetween the things we tried not to admit\nBut hands stayed clasped when all else seemed to fail\nA stubborn anchor in a shifting sea\nWe learned that love is not a fairy tale\nBut choosing one another constantly\nThe storms have passed and left a washed-out sky\nWhere edges of the hills are sharp and clear\nNo longer wondering if or why\nWe only know that you are drawing near\nThe path ahead is bright with morning light\nNot free of rocks, but steady as it goes\nWe walk together towards a safer night\nWith nowhere else for either of us goes\nDefined by scars and triumphs side by side\nOur story grows from roots that dug quite deep\nThere was nowhere far enough to hide\nFrom promises we vowed ourselves to keep\nSo let the future open up its door\nAs confident as those who bear the past\nWe do not ask for anything more\nThan knowing every step is yours and ours at last\nA shelter built from all we overcame\nTo stand against the coming wind and rain\nCalling out softly just your name\nIn a world that finally feels less insane\nWe are the map and also both the way\nMoving forward from the dark to see\nHow much stronger loving had to be\nTo bring us home to who we were meant to be\nSafe at last\nTogether\nWhole\nHome\nFree\nClearly\nTwo\nOne\nAlways\nComing\nTowards\nThe\nSun\nRising\nHigh\nOver\nEverything\nThat\nWas\nHard\nBefore\nThis\nNew\nDay\nBegins\nWith\nBoth\nOf\nUs\nWalking\nOn\nStraight\nAhead\nUnafraid\nKnowing\nOnly\nLove\nRemains\nCertain\nSure\nEnduring\nStrong\nClear\nBright\nHere\nNow\nAlways\nNext\nStep\nTaken\nSide\nby\nSide\nForward\nEver\nMore\nTogether\nFinally\nSafe\nAt\nLast\nBeginning\nAgain\nNot\nStarting\nOver\nBut\nMoving\nOn\nUp\nOut\nAway\nFrom\nAll\nThe\nDark\nInto\nThe\nLight\nWhere\nNothing\nShadows\nHide\nAnymore\nOnly\nOpen\nRoad\nOnly\nYour\nHand\nOnly\nMine\nOnly\nUs\nOnly\nPeace\nOnly\nTruth\nOnly\nLove\nOnly\nFuture\nOnly\nHome\nOnly\nWe\nOnly\nYou\nOnly\nMe\nOnly\nUs\nOnly\nAlways\nOnly\nNow\nOnly\nNext\nOnly\nToday\nOnly\nTomorrow\nOnly\nEver\nOnly\nNever\nEnding\nOnly\nBeginning\nOnly\nStart\nOnly\nFinish\nOnly\nWhole\nOnly\nComplete\nOnly\nFull\nOnly\nRich\nOnly\nPoor\nOnly\nHappy\nOnly\nSad\nOnly\nJoy\nOnly\nPain\nOnly\nHealing\nOnly\nWounded\nOnly\nMended\nOnly\nBroken\nOnly\nFixed\nOnly\nStrong\nOnly\nWeak\nOnly\nHard\nOnly\nSoft\nOnly\nSharp\nOnly\nBlunt\nOnly\nEdged\nOnly\nRound\nOnly\nSquare\nOnly\nFlat\nOnly\nDeep\nOnly\nShallow\nOnly\nWide\nOnly\nNarrow\nOnly\nLong\nOnly\nShort\nOnly\nBig\nOnly\nSmall\nOnly\nLarge\nOnly\nTiny\nOnly\nGiant\nOnly\nDwarf\nOnly\nKing\nOnly\nQueen\nOnly\nPrince\nOnly\nPrincess\nOnly\nMan\nOnly\nWoman\nOnly\nChild\nOnly\nAdult\nOnly\nOld\nOnly\nYoung\nOnly\nNew\nOnly\nAncient\nOnly\nModern\nOnly\nPast\nOnly\nPresent\nOnly\nFuture\nOnly\nTime\nOnly\nSpace\nOnly\nPlace\nOnly\nHome\nOnly\nAway\nOnly\nNear\nOnly\nFar\nOnly\nClose\nOnly\nDistant\nOnly\nHere\nOnly\nThere\nOnly\nEverywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nSomewhere\nOnly\nNowhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere\nOnly\nAnywhere", 6, "The road was rough and lined with thorns\nWhere silence often grew too loud\nWe walked through storms that tore the dawn\nAnd hid behind a heavy cloud\nBut in the dark we held on tight\nTo promises we softly made\nA steady flame against the night\nThat would not fade or be afraid\n\nWe learned to speak when words were hard\nTo listen past the anger's sting\nTo find the shelter of your heart\nWhen winter tried to strip the spring\nNo longer fighting side by side\nAs separate ships in shifting seas\nWe built a bridge where none had tried\nTo walk together, hand in hands\n\nThe path ahead is clearing now\nWith morning light breaking the gray\nWe shed the weight of every vow\nThat kept us from a brighter day\nThe future waits with open doors\nNot free from all that life may bring\nBut strong enough to bear the loads\nOn quiet feet and steady wing\nWe move toward a safer place\nDefined not by the pain we knew\nBut by the love that time could not erase\nAnd holds us both in all we do", 7, "The road was rough with stones we did not see\nAnd shadows stretched too long across the ground\nWe held our breath and leaned on one another's knee\nWhile silence made a heavy, hollow sound\nBut in that dark, a promise started deep\nNot loud or bright but steady as a stone\nA vow to watch the other while they sleep\nTo never face the coming night alone\n\nNow storms have passed and left the air so clear\nThe path ahead is washed by morning light\nWe walk together, banishing all fear\nOf falling back into the endless night\nOur hands are calloused from the work we've done\nYet grip much tighter than they ever could\nTwo separate rivers merging into one\nFlowing toward a place where understood\nThe love we built survives the breaking waves\nIt stands between us and the things that hurt\nA shelter found within the quiet caves\nWhere safety waits and heals every old hurt\nSo let us go where dawn begins to rise\nWith nothing left to hide and nowhere to run\nJust two souls looking at the open skies\nTogether under one enduring sun", 7, "The wind howled through the cracks we could not seal,\nAnd shadows stretched across the floorboards worn,\nYet in the quiet space where fear would kneel,\nYour hand found mine and kept us safely drawn.\n\nWe learned to speak in whispers when the storm\nBrought thunder down to shake the fragile roof,\nTo hold a steady flame against the norm\nOf chaos that sought to steal our only truth.\n\nNo longer running from the dark ahead,\nWe walk with lanterns lit by shared resolve,\nThe path is rough but paved with words we said,\nA promise that the broken parts will solve.\n\nThe future clears like dawn after the rain,\nWhere safety waits beneath a wider sky,\nTwo hearts that weathered loss and sharp disdain\nNow rise together, standing firm and high.", 7, "The road was rough with stones we did not choose,\nAnd shadows stretched long across the ground,\nBut in the quiet space between our shoes,\nWe found a rhythm that would never sound.\n\nYou held my hand when storms began to break,\nAnd I became the shelter for your fear,\nFor every promise that we dared to make,\nWas built on love that time could not make clear.\n\nNow mist is lifting from the valley floor,\nRevealing paths that lead to safer skies,\nWe do not need to walk this path anymore,\nWith only doubt and silence as replies.\n\nThe future waits with open, gentle arms,\nNo longer bound by what we used to fight,\nJust steady hearts and calm and healing charms,\nWalking together into clearer light.", 7, "The wind has howled against the glass for years,\nAnd we have stood within the shaking frame,\nCounting cracks that mapped our deepest fears,\nYet never whispered out each other's name.\n\nWe learned to walk on ground that shifted deep,\nTo hold a hand when shadows tried to break,\nTo find a rhythm in the storm's repeat,\nAnd make a promise that no tide could take.\n\nNow mist begins to lift from off the road,\nRevealing paths we carved through dark and cold,\nA lighter step beneath the rising load,\nAs stories of survival start unfold.\n\nThe future is not just a distant shore,\nBut something built with patience, brick by brick,\nWhere safety waits behind a sturdy door,\nAnd love becomes the compass, strong and quick.\n\nSo let us move toward this clearer light,\nWith scars that prove we weathered every gale,\nNo longer lost within the endless night,\nBut anchored safe within a shared detail.", 7, "The wind has howled against the glass for years,\nAnd shadows stretched across our weary floor,\nWe've weathered storms that made us fear and fear,\nYet found a quiet calm within the roar.\n\nYou hold my hand when paths turn rough and steep,\nWith eyes that fix upon the rising sun,\nPromising the promises we keep,\nUntil the final battle is won.\n\nNo longer lost beneath the mist so gray,\nWe chart the course toward the clearer light,\nWhere safety waits to make the break of day,\nAnd replace the chaos with a gentle night.\n\nSo let us walk this road until it ends,\nThrough tangled roots into the open plain,\nBuilding again what time can rewrite,", 7, "We carve make rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [65, "ultra_held_out", "Apostate by L\u00e9onie Adams", "L\u00e9onie Adams", "A poem about a speaker marveling at the joyful freedom of the stars and aching to live as they do, unmasked and unbound by rules.", "From weariness I looked out on the stars\nAnd there beheld them, fixed in throbbing joy, Nor racked by such mad dance of moods as mars\nFor us each moment\u2019s grace with swift alloy. And as they pierced the heavens\u2019 serene deep\nAn envy of that one consummate part\nSwept me, who mock. Whether I laugh or weep,\nSome inner silences are at my heart.\nCold shame is mine for all the masks I wear,\nBelying that in me which shines and sings\nBefore Him, to face down man\u2019s alien stare\u2014\nA graceless puppet on unmeaning strings, I that looked out, and saw, and was at rest,\nStars, and faint wings, rose-etched along the west.", "They dance in silent, silver arcs\nAbove the heavy, rule-bound earth,\nNo masks to hide their burning hearts,\nNo chains of gravity or girth.\n\nOh, how I ache to shed this skin,\nThis suit of laws and whispered lies,\nTo let the wild light rush within\nAnd meet the vast and open skies.\n\nNo curfew holds the drifting fire,\nNo judge decrees where they may roam,\nJust endless, unconfined desire\nThat calls the wandering spirit home.\n\nI watch them spin without a care,\nUnbound by time or human law,\nAnd wish with all my soul to tear\nThe fabric that I wear as awe.\n\nTo be as they are, bright and free,\nUnmasked before the void's deep eye,\nA star in wild symmetry,\nBeneath the infinite and sky.", "Look how they wheel\nnot asking permission\nfrom the Edward EdwardEdwardEdwardEdward EdwardEdward EdwardEdward EdwardEdward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward 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Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward", 1, "They hang suspended in the velvet deep\nNo laws to hold their burning breath\nUnmasked by clouds or secrets kept\nWhile all of earth is locked by death\nHow wildly they spin in silent joy\nWithout a governor or law\nA child who never learned to toy\nWith guilt or sorrow or the saw\nThat cuts our spirit from the bone\nI ache to be such naked light\nTo burn and dance and call it home\nAnd vanish in the endless night\nNo names to bear, no debts to pay\nOnly the rush of gas and flame\nTo live exactly as we may\nBefore the universe grew tame\nMy skin feels heavy like a shell\nWhere theirs are open wide and free\nThere is nowhere else to dwell\nBut in that wild astronomy\nO stars, teach me how to fall\nNot down but out, away from here\nTo have no master at all\nExcept the dark and sudden year\nOf freedom burning bright and stark\nUnbound by time or mortal hand\nI long to be a shooting spark\nThat none were ever asked to ban\nUnmasked before the morning comes\nAs innocent as when begun\nFree from all those heavy drums\nThat beat for everyone but none\nSave you who laugh in empty space\nWho know no rule but your own way\nWho wear no mask of human face\nWho live and die in dazzling day\nWhy must I hide behind this skin\nWhen yours are clear and sharp and whole\nWhy must the world come rushing in\nTo steal the fire from my soul\nIf only I could slip away\nLike ash from up an opened grate\nTo join your uninhibited play\nAnd live unchained by late or date\nThen all would see the truth I bear\nThat rules are just a hollow sound\nThat love and wonder everywhere\nAre all that ever really bound\nThe heart to jump and leap and fly\nBeyond the edge of sight and sense\nBeneath the indifferent sky\nWhere nothing asks for recompense\nExcept the joy of being there\nIn radiant and reckless flight\nWith hair tossed loose and breathing air\nThat tastes of infinite delight\nHow happy are the stars tonight\nHow poor the man who knows his name\nTrapped in his cage of borrowed light\nCalling himself by another's fame\nUnbind me from the clay and dust\nUnmask the self I hid from view\nReturn to elements of thrust\nReturn to what was always true\nThe starry road calls out to me\nA path of luminous debris\nWhere every soul runs utterly\nUncovered and set wholly free\nOne day perhaps I'll learn to glow\nAs simply as a distant ray\nWhere nobody asks why or how\nOr demands I stay and pray\nFor reasons other than the bliss\nOf burning bright and having none\nOf worrying about the hiss\nOf setting or of coming on\nJust being \u2013 that \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nThe stars \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAnd \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nAlways \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\nFree \u2013 \u2013 \u2013\n", 6, "They burn without a permission slip\ndancing in the vacuum, wild and free\nno laws of earth to hold their light\nno heavy masks of who we ought to be\nI watch them spin in silent joy\nunburdened by the weight of names\nwhile I am pinned by rules I chose\nand play the part that dulls my flames\noh how I ache to shed this skin\nto drift where gravity cannot reach\nto be a spark, unmasked, unbound\nwith nothing left for man to teach\njust pure and burning freedom there\nin fields of dark where no one sees\nthe trembling heart that longs to break\nfrom all these chains of social ease\nlet me be dust and distant fire\nunraveled from the human chain\nto live as stars have always lived\nwithout a single rule or pain", 6, "They dance in silent, silver arcs\nUnbound by law or heavy walls\nNo mask to hide their burning hearts\nNo ceiling where the freedom falls\n\nI watch them spin in wild delight\nWithout a name or shame to keep\nWhile I am chained to day and night\nAnd buried in a quiet sleep\n\nOh how I ache to shed this skin\nTo burn without a guiding hand\nTo let the dark rush rushing in\nAnd be as vast and unconfined as sand\n\nNo rules to tell me where to go\nNo voice to say you must not shine\nJust endless space and brilliant glow\nAnd stars that do not know the line", 6, "I watch them spin in silent, silver arcs\nUnburdened by the heavy weight of days\nNo laws to hold their wild and wandering sparks\nNo masks to hide the light within their gaze\n\nThey do not bow to clocks or strict command\nNor fear the shadow that the earth casts down\nThey burn with such a fierce and free demand\nTo wear the crown of darkness as a gown\n\nMy heart aches for that vast and open space\nWhere no one asks me who I must become\nTo run without a trace, without a face\nTo be the fire before the drum\n\nOh, let me shed this skin of rules and names\nAnd drift where gravity has lost its hold\nTo dance among the cold and ancient flames\nA story written only to unfold", 7, "I watch them burn in silent, wild delight\nNo laws to chain their light within the night\nThey spin without a script, they dance unbound\nWhile I am trapped beneath this heavy ground\n\nOh how I ache to shed this human skin\nTo let the ancient fire rush back within\nNo masks of polite smiles to hide the pain\nJust pure and raw existence like the rain\n\nThey do not ask for permission to be bright\nThey simply are, a chaotic, burning sight\nUnburdened by the rules we write for men\nI wish to fall apart and rise again\n\nTo scatter through the void with no regret\nA comet's tail where only truth is met\nNo chains of duty, no expectations deep\nJust freedom that the sleeping stars can keep", 6, "I watch them spin in silent, silver glee,\nUnchained by gravity or human law,\nNo heavy masks to hide their true decree,\nNo whispered rules to make the spirit draw.\n\nThey burn without a need for permission's light,\nJust wild and vast across the velvet deep,\nWhile I am bound within the narrow night,\nWith promises I struggle to keep.\n\nOh, how I ache to shed this crafted skin,\nTo dance above the world that weighs me down,\nLetting the ancient chaos flow within,\nAnd wear no crown, no mask, no quiet frown.\n\nTo be as they are: raw, unbound, and free,\nA single spark against the endless dark,\nWithout the chains of what we ought to be,\nJust fire dancing in the cosmic arc.", 6, "I watch you burn across the velvet deep,\nSo wild, so free, so unafraid to shine.\nYou make no promise that you'll keep,\nYou break no chains, rewrite no line.\n\nNo masks of polish fix your face,\nNo heavy rules to bind your light.\nJust pure and chaotic, blazing grace,\nThat dances through the endless night.\n\nOh, how I ache beneath this skin,\nTo cast away the weight I wear.\nTo let the ancient fire within,\nExpand into the boundless air.\n\nNo judge would check my rising beam,\nNo clock would tell me when to fade.\nJust dissolve into the cosmic stream,\nUnbound, unravelled, made unwade.", 6, "Above\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u6269\u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1], [67, "train", "[A] Talisman by Marianne Moore", "Marianne Moore", "\"A poem about a shepherd discovering a mysterious seagull-shaped talisman beneath the wreckage of a grounded, broken ship.\"", "Under a splintered mast,\ntorn from ship and cast\nnear her hull,\na stumbling shepherd found\nembedded in the ground,\na sea-gull\nof lapis lazuli,\na scarab of the sea,\nwith wings spread\u2014\ncurling its coral feet,\nparting its beak to greet\nmen long dead.", "The tide had left the hull to rot and rust,\nA skeletal whale upon the shifting sand,\nWhere gulls once screamed above the broken mast,\nNow silence held the wreckage in its hand.\n\nI walked among the splintered ribs of wood,\nMy flock asleep within the distant dune,\nWhen something caught the light where shadows stood,\nBeneath a beam that fell like early moon.\n\nIt was not bone, nor driftwood, nor old rope,\nBut metal cold as winter's deepest breath,\nCarved into the shape of hope or scope,\nA seagull frozen in a silent death.\n\nIts wings were spread as if to catch the wind,\nYet etched with symbols I could not decipher,\nA talisman from lands beyond the mind,\nThat seemed to hum with some forgotten cipher.\n\nI lifted it and felt a sudden chill,\nAs if the ocean whispered through the stone,\nThe ship was dead, but this was made to will,\nA guardian for the lost who walk alone.\n\nNo captain's coin, no sailor's lucky charm,\nJust bird-shaped magic found in ruin's keep,\nI tucked it close against my woolen arm,\nAnd watched the sea while all the world fell asleep.", "The \u2013\n \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The beach was strewn with splintered bone\nOf ships that drowned and failed to swim\nWhere salt had killed the living stone\nAnd silence grew both sharp and grim\nHe searched among the twisted wood\nWith hands worn rough by winter wind\nWhen sudden light from nowhere stood\nBeneath a rib of ribs he found\nA shell not sea nor bird or fish\nBut talisman of strange design\nIt seemed to hold a secret wish\nIn curves of pearl and dull marine\nIts beak was pointed at the sky\nAs if it waited for a flight\nFrom where the dark clouds gathered high\nTo seize the edge of coming night\nHe lifted up the seagull charm\nThat weighed as much as heavy doubt\nAnd watched the morning start to warm\nBefore all other sounds went out\nThe wreckage groaned in mourning low\nWhile he held fast the hollow prize\nWondering how such things could grow\nFrom depths where no man opens eyes\nThen tossed his head back to the sand\nLeaving the broken hull behind\nTracing the line of sea and land\nWith wonder burning in his mind\nFor who had sailed to lose such grace\nUpon an ocean far and dead\nOr whom had left it there to hide\nBeneath the shipwreck and its dead\nHe walked away with step unsure\nThe talisman tucked in his breast\nAs if some ancient law were poor\nEnough to fail such dire unrest\nThe waves rolled in and washed the shore\nOf all the wood and wire and wreck\nLeaving him wondering once more\nAbout the secrets none knew next\nThe bird remained a silent guest\nBetween his palm and beating heart\nA guardian of unknown quest\nThat drove the shepherd far apart\nFrom home and hearth and familiar ways\nBack toward hills of grass and green\nWhile thinking of those cloudy days\nWhen gods might walk on water seen\nNot gods but birds of silver skin\nWho fell from heavens hard and high\nOnly to wait and then begin\nTheir work when earth returned to dry\nHe touched the beak one last time there\nAnd felt a vibration, soft and thin\nLike memory hanging in the air\nOf voyages never entered in\nThen buried him in thought again\nAs footprints marked the wetted sand\nReturning to his sheep and pain\nWith nothing else but sea and land\nExcept the weight inside his hand\nThat grew too large to understand\nOr bear\nOr throw\nAway\nAt all\nOn\nThis\nShore\nNo\nMore\nEver\nAgain\nToday\nThe\nShip\nWas\nGone\nBut\nNot\nThe\nBird\nNor\nStill\nHis\nSoul\nHad\nMoved\nBy\nOne\nSmall\nThing\nThat\nOpened\nWide\nA\nDoor\nHe\nNever\nKnew\nWas\nThere\nTo\nSee\nHow\nFar\nThe\nSea\nCould\nReach\nUp\nHigh\nTo\nTouch\nThe\nVery\nEdge\nOf\nSky\nAnd\nLeave\nA\nMark\nOn\nThose\nWho\nPassed\nBy\nChance\nAlong\nThe\nEdge\nOf\nWreckage\nLaid\nOut\nFlat\nOn\nSand\nWhere\nNothing\nElse\nRemained\nUnchanged\nBy\nTime\nOr\nTide\nOr\nWind\nBlowing\nHard\nFrom\nOff\nThe\nNorth\nWest\nSide\nOf\nAll\nThings\nLost\nAnd\nFound\nAgain\nBy\nShepherd\nHand\nWho\nSought\nOnly\nHis\nFlock\nBack\nHome\nTo\nGrass\nWhere\nSheep\nRoamed\nFree\nFrom\nAny\nOther\nSource\nOf\nFear\nBesides\nThe\nWolf\nWho\nHid\nAmong\nThe\nRocks\nBelow\nThe\nCliff\nEdge\nSharp\nAnd\nSteep\nWhere\nSeabirds\nCalled\nTheir\nWarning\nNotes\nOf\nComing\nStorm\nThat\nNever\nStopped\nRaging\nOn\nThe\nWater\nBlack\nAs\nNight\nWithout\nA\nSingle\nStar\nTo\nGuide\nThe\nWay\nBack\nTo\nPort\nSafe\nHarbor\nWhere\nThey\nDock\nEach\nDay\nAt\nDawn\nWith\nFish\nFull\nLoaded\nDown\nTheir\nSturdy\nSides\nOf\nWood\nNew\nCut\nFrom\nTrees\nThat\nGrew\nOn\nMountains\nHigh\nAbove\nThe\nCloud\nLine\nWhite\nAnd\nSoft\nAs\nCotton\nWool\nThrown\nOver\nHead\nBy\nGod\n Himself\n To\nHide\n His\n Face\n From\n View\n Of\n Men\n Who\n Sinned\n Too\n Much\n In\n Past\n Years\n Gone\n By\n Quickly\n Like\n A\n Flash\n Of\n Lightning\n Bright\n And\n Loud\n Before\n It\n Fades\n Away\n Into\n The\n", 6, "The tide had pulled the timber back\nTo leave a skeleton of pine\nWhere salt and rust began to crack\nAgainst the stones in lines\nI walked among the broken ribs\nOf some great beast from far away\nWhen something glinted in the silt\nBeneath the grey and heavy clay\n\nIt was not bone nor shell nor stone\nBut metal cold and strangely bright\nA bird with wings of feathered bronze\nThat caught the dying light\nSeagull shaped with beak of gold\nAnd eyes of deep and ocean blue\nIt seemed to hold a story old\nThat none but I should know or view\n\nThe ship was dead, the sea was still\nYet in my hand the talisman\nFelt warm as if it had a will\nTo guide me through the span\nOf days that stretch from shore to sky\nWhere gulls cry out their lonely song\nI held the bird and wondered why\nIt waited here all winter long\n\nPerhaps it fell from heaven's gate\nOr rose from depths where monsters sleep\nTo watch the shepherd tend his fate\nWhile others lost in dreams\nNow rests the wreck beneath the sand\nAnd I walk on with silent grace\nHolding the seagull in my hand\nAcross this quiet, salted place", 6, "The tide had left the hull to rot and rust,\nA skeleton of timber on the sand,\nWhere salt and silence held a heavy trust,\nAnd broken masts stood like a withered hand.\nI walked among the ribs of wood and bone,\nMy flock asleep beneath the distant hill,\nWhen something caught the light of afternoon,\nNot glass or shell, but metal, sharp and still.\n\nIt lay half-buried in the wet gray clay,\nA shape that mocked the birds I knew so well,\nWith wings of silver stretched in flight away,\nAnd eyes of blue that held a secret spell.\nNo seagull ever wore such cold design,\nIts beak was carved from some forgotten star,\nIt seemed to hum a low and ancient line,\nAs if it knew exactly where we are.\n\nI lifted up the talisman with care,\nAnd felt a tremor run along my skin,\nThe air grew thick with salt and sudden air,\nAs if the ocean called me back again.\nThe ship was dead, its journey long since done,\nBut this small bird would never touch the ground,\nIt watched the setting of the dying sun,\nWith silent grace and no discernible sound.\n\nI tucked it close against my woolen vest,\nLeaving the wreckage for the rising tide,\nTo carry home this strange and hollow guest,\nWith nowhere left for either ship or guide.\nThe wind blew soft across the empty shore,\nAs if the sea had whispered out a name,\nAnd I walked on, not quite as I before,\nHolding the ghost of flight within my palm.", 6, "The tide had pulled the galleon down\nTo rest upon the shingle gray,\nWhere splintered masts and broken crown\nHad surrendered to the day.\n\nI walked among the driftwood bones\nWith staff of ash and woolen coat,\nUntil a glint beneath the stones\nBecame my sudden note.\n\nNot shell nor glass nor coral red,\nBut silver shaped in wing and beak,\nA seagull from the deep instead,\nWith eyes that seemed to speak.\n\nIt lay within the keel's dark heart,\nUnmarred by rust or salt or time,\nAs if it meant to start the art\nOf some forgotten rhyme.\n\nThe wind blew cold across the sand,\nYet warmth rose up from metal cool,\nA bird designed for no known land,\nOr perhaps a different rule.\n\nI lifted it with trembling hand,\nAnd felt the ocean's ancient hum,\nThe ship was lost, but I now stand\nWhere silent mysteries come.", 7, "The tide had left the hull to rot and rust,\nA skeleton of timber on the sand,\nWhere gulls once screamed above the salty crust,\nNow silence held the broken, shifting land.\n\nI walked the ribs where ocean winds would howl,\nMy staff in hand, my flock long gone to rest,\nWhen something caught the light beneath a bowler's shroud,\nNot bone or shell, but carved from deep-sea chest.\n\nIt lay half-buried in the darkened slime,\nA shape of wings spread wide as if to fly,\nNo bird of flesh could claim this form so prime,\nWith eyes of polished stone against the sky.\n\nThe beak was sharp with secrets of the deep,\nThe feathers etched with tides that never cease,\nA talisman the drowning sailors keep,\nTo guide the lost toward a final peace.\n\nI lifted it and felt a sudden chill,\nAs if the sea itself breathed through the air,\nThe seagull's gaze made time stand still,\nAnd left me standing there beyond repair.\n\nNow I walk home with weight upon my palm,\nBeneath the moon that watches from above,\nThis silent bird becomes my quiet psalm,\nA mystery wrapped in salt and ancient love.", 6, "The tide receded from the rusted ribs,\nLeaving the gulls to circle silent skies above the deep.\nI walked where splintered timber met the sand,\nA shepherd seeking lost and wandering sheep.\n\nBeneath a beam of oak, now black with rot,\nSomething caught the morning's pale and trembling light.\nNot gold, nor bone, but carved from stone so white,\nIt held the shape of wings that could not fly.\n\nA seagull talisman, with eyes of glass,\nStill turned toward a horizon long since gone.\nNo wind could make it shift or make it pass,\nThough waves had sung their final, heavy song.\n\nI picked it up, the weight was strange and cold,\nAs if the ocean kept a secret here.\nThe broken ship told stories untold,\nOf storms that made the bravest sailors fear.\n\nNow in my pocket, warm against my coat,\nThe bird looks out upon the grazing flock.\nA guardian found within the captain's throat,\nTo watch the land while I return the clock.", 5, "The mist clung low upon the craggy shore,\nWhere silence reigned above the breakers' roar.\nI guided my flock beneath the gray, damp veil,\nUntil I stumbled where the timbers trail.\n\nA galleon split, its ribs exposed to tide,\nWith rusted chains and tangled rigging tied.\nBeneath a plank of oak, decay'd and deep,\nSomething within the rotting shadows sleep.\n\nI knelt amidst the slime and scattered foam,\nAnd felt beneath my calloused, sun-worn thumb.\nNo coin of gold, no gem from distant lands,\nBut carved with wings that mimic soaring bands.\n\nA seagull shaped in silver, cold and bright,\nThat caught the weak reflection of the light.\nIts eyes were polished stone, so vast and deep,\nAs if it watched while centuries would sleep.\n\nThe wind beneath its carved expand'd wings,\nEcho'd the song the lost vessel sings.\nI held the talisman against my chest,\nAnd put my weary, wandering soul to rest.", 6, "The mist clung tight above the rewrite'd tide,  \nUntil I found what make reply write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write 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write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write", 1], [86, "train", "Spring and Fall by Gerard Manley Hopkins", "Gerard Manley Hopkins", "\"A poem about a young girl grieving over falling leaves, unknowingly mourning her own mortality.\"", "to a young child\nM\u00e1rgar\u00e9t, \u00e1re you gr\u00edeving\nOver Goldengrove unleaving?\nLe\u00e1ves like the things of man, you\nWith your fresh thoughts care for, can you?\nAh! \u00e1s the heart grows older\nIt will come to such sights colder\nBy and by, nor spare a sigh\nThough worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;\nAnd yet you w\u00edll weep and know why.\nNow no matter, child, the name:\nS\u00f3rrow\u2019s spr\u00edngs \u00e1re the same.\nNor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed\nWhat heart heard of, ghost guessed:\nIt \u00eds the blight man was born for,\nIt is Margaret you mourn for.", "She crouches in the garden dirt\nTo catch a maple's final spin,\nHer small hands open, soft and hurt,\nAs winter waits to rush within.\n\nWhy must they let go of the bough?\nShe asks the wind that shakes the tree,\nWith tears she cannot quite explain,\nFor falling things seem wrong to be.\n\nShe counts the cracks upon the bark,\nThe yellow veins that turn to brown,\nAnd feels a strange and sudden dark\nThat pulls her down to touch the ground.\n\nIt is not just the leaves she weeps,\nBut something deep inside her chest,\nA promise that the sleep she keeps\nWill one day call her home to rest.\n\nShe does not know her time will come,\nLike autumn's end, like cold and gray,\nShe only knows the silence hums\nWhen all the vibrant green goes away.", "She watched the maple children jump\nfrom \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "She crouches low where autumn breath\nHas stripped the boughs of all their dress\nAnd watches one by one they fall\nA brittle sigh, a sudden hiss\nOf dry and brown and broken things\nThat once were high among the stars\nNow crushed beneath her tiny feet\nShe wonders why they had to go\nWhy such bright hair must turn to dust\nShe brushes off her scraped-up knee\nWith trembling hands and wetter eyes\nNot knowing she counts down her days\nIn every leaf that hits the ground\nShe mourns the tree but not herself\nWho also waits for winter's cold\nTo strip away her living green\nAnd lie quite still in earth as well\nAs all the others did before\nThe child who cries for falling leaves\nWill one day be a fallen leaf\nAmong the ones she cried about\nWhile thinking only of the trees\nThe wind blows hard and takes them all\nLeaving her small and very late\nTo wonder why she grew so tall\nIf everything must fall away\nShe holds her breath and starts to weep\nFor those who cannot stay\nNot knowing she has said\nGoodbye to herself\nBefore she even knows\nShe had begun\nTo live\nAt all\nOnly\nThe\nGrinding\nSound\nOf\nDirt\nOn\nBone\nReturns\nTo\nSilence\nIn\nThe\nEnd\nWhen\nNothing\nStays\nBut\nWinter\nComing\nSoon\nLike\nAll\nThings\nMust\nCome\nHome\nTo\nDust\nWhere\nEverything\nBegins\nAgain\nIn\nDarkness\nWaiting\nThere\nBeneath\nThe\nRoot\nOf\nEvery\nTree\nShe\nCried\nOver\nToday\nWho\nWas\nNever\nReally\nMine\nNor\nAnyone\nElse\nEither\nJust\nA\nMoment\nLong\nEnough\nTo\nGrieve\nThen\nPass\nAway\nLike\nLeaves\nThat\nFall\nDown\nSlow\nAnd\nCover\nUp\nThe\nRoad\nWe\nUsed\nTo\nKnow\nBefore\nIt\nFaded\nOut\nFrom\nView\nBehind\nHer\nBack\nShe\nDoes\nNot\nSee\nHow\nLittle\nTime\nShe\nHas\nLeft\nHere\nTo\nStand\nAnd\nWatch\nIt\nGo\nAway\nFrom\nHer\nOwn\nHand\nWhich\nOpens\nWide\nTo\nCatch\nNone\nMore\nThan\nEmpty\nAir\nThat\nWhispers\nLow\nAnd\nHard\nAbout\nHow\nQuickly\nSummer\nRuns\nOut\nThere\nAmong\nThe\nGrass\nThat\nTurns\nTo\nGray\nAnd\nWaits\nFor\nSnow\nTo\nHide\nIt\nAll\nFrom\nSight\nOf\nThose\nWho\nWalk\nBesides\nThe\nEdge\nOf\nLife\nAnd\nDeath\nBoth\nNear\nAnd\nFar\nApart\nIn\nOne\nBig\nHeap\nOf\nBroken\nThings\nShe\nCalled\nBy\nName\nOnce\nLong\n ago\n Before\n She\n Knew\n Her\n Name\n Was\n Also\n Falling\n Down\n Like\n All\n The\n Rest\n Of\n Us\n Who\n Thought\n We\n Had\n More\n Time\n To\n Spend\n On\n Watching\n Leaves\n Fall\n Down\n To\n Earth\n As\n If\n They\n Were\n Not\n Going\n There\n Themselves\n Soon\n After\n All\n Was\n Said\n And\n Done\n By\n Hands\n That\n Trembled\n In\n The\n Wind\n And\n Asked\n Why\n Everything\n Must\n End\n Before\n It\n Really\n Started\n Yet\n Still\n Crying\n Out\n Aloud\n For\n Things\n Already\n Gone\n Away\n From\n View\n Behind\n Her\n Back\n Where\n Nothing\n Stays\n Except\n The\n Memory\n Of\n Summer\n Long\n Ago\n When\n Leaves\n Were\n Green\n And\n Bright\n Above\n Her\n Head\n Before\n They\n Died\n And\n Fell\n To\n Ground\n Like\n Everyone\n Else\n Later\n On\n In\n Life\n Or\n Death\n Which\n Comes\n About\n The\n Same\n Way\n Anyway\n In\n End\n Less\n Ways\n We\n Cannot\n See\n Coming\n Near\n Or\n Far\n Away\n From\n Here\n To\n There\n In\n One\n Big\n Heap\n Of\n Broken\n Things\n Called\n Lives\n Or\n Leaves\n Or\n Both\n Alike\n In\n All\n Their\n Falling\n Down\n To\n Dust\n Where\n All\n Things\n Go\n At\n Last\n To\n Sleep\n And\n Never\n Wake\n Again\n In\n Any\n Form\n We\n Know\n Or\n Understand\n As\n Children\n Do\n Who\n Think\n They\n Have\n All\n Day\n To\n Play\n Outside\n Before\n The\n Sun\n Goes\n Down\n", 2, "She watches them descend in slow descent\nA brittle gold that cracks beneath her shoe\nAnd wonders why the trees have lost their rent\nOf summer green to let the autumn through\n\nShe counts the ones that fall and cannot rise\nEach one a small and silent funeral\nA tear falls from her own surprised blue eyes\nAs if she knows exactly how they fell\n\nThe wind blows cold against her tender skin\nIt whispers secrets of a coming night\nShe does not know where all the leaves have been\nOr that she too must fade into the light\n\nShe gathers up a handful of the dead\nAnd presses them close to her beating heart\nUnknowing of the path her feet have tread\nNor that she is the leaf about to part\n\nThe ground waits open with a hungry mouth\nTo swallow all the colors, all the sound\nShe thinks it only happens here on earth\nBut she is falling downward to the ground", 7, "She watches gold and crimson drift\nTo meet the damp and waiting earth,\nAnd counts the ones that lose their grip\nBefore they know their final birth.\n\nA tear falls for the brittle vein\nThat once held summer in its grasp,\nAs if a life could not sustain\nThe sudden cold of winter's clasp.\n\nShe presses fingers to her chest\nWhere something soft begins to fade,\nUnknowing that she is the guest\nWho will not stay within the shade.\n\nThe wind blows through her hair so light\nLike breath that leaves a body soon,\nShe mourns the falling leaf at night\nWhile walking toward her own noon.\n\nThe tree stands bare against the gray\nWith branches stripped of all it knew,\nShe does not see the coming day\nWhen she must say a last adieu.\n\nJust sorrow for the scattered brown\nThat covers grass with silent weight,\nNot knowing she will wear the crown\nOf dust before it is too late.", 7, "She watches the maple let go of its red\nAnd drifts down to the gray and damp ground below\nA small hand reaches out to catch one in flight\nBut it slips through her fingers like smoke in the night\n\nWhy do they fall? she asks with a frown\nWhen the summer was warm and the green never drowned\nThe wind takes them all without asking permission\nLeaving the branches bare for the winter's submission\n\nShe weeps for the leaf that could not hold on tight\nFor the sudden stillness, the end of the light\nNot knowing the tree is a mirror of bone\nOr that she too must leave this place all alone\n\nThe soil waits softly beneath her small feet\nWhere the roots drink the rain and the shadows meet\nShe mourns what has ended before it began\nUnaware she is singing her own funeral song\nAs the last of the autumn turns cold in her hands.", 6, "She watches gold turn brittle in the wind\nAnd counts the ones that fall before they land\nA quiet rustle where the branches thin\nLike fingers losing grip upon the sand\n\nOh, why must beauty break and drift away?\nShe whispers to the ground beneath her feet\nAs if the season stole the light of day\nAnd left a shadow where the sun once beat\n\nShe does not know this ache is deep and old\nThat every leaf she mourns is just a sign\nOf time that turns the story from the bold\nTo dust that waits for winter's cold design\n\nThe girl will fade as surely as the tree\nThough now she only weeps for falling green\nUnaware that soon she too must be\nA memory within the space between", 7, "She kneels upon the damp and turning grass\nTo catch the crimson spirals as they fall,\nAnd whispers to the brittle, drying mass\nThat this is wrong, that nothing should end at all.\n\nHer small hands cradle veins of gold and rust,\nAs if she could repair the fraying edge,\nBelieving time can be held in a fist,\nOr kept from sliding off the leafy ledge.\n\nShe does not know that every stem that breaks\nIs just a mirror for her own short breath,\nThat winter waits beneath the fading lakes,\nAnd silence follows even quiet death.\n\nShe weeps for what the wind has stolen now,\nUnaware she mourns the girl she used to be,\nBefore the frost would settle on her brow,\nBefore the final, falling leaf set free.", 6, "The girl sits beneath the oak so deep,\nAnd counts the rustling leaves asleep.\nOne turns to gold, then drops below,\nInto the shadow's quiet flow.\n\nShe whispers soft to make them stay,\nBut wind takes them and leads away.\n\"I'll save you here within my hand,\nSo nothing fades across this land.\"\n\nHer fingers close around the dry,\nA brittle proof that time can die.\nYet she does not feel the chill that creeps,\nWithin the veins where silence sleeps.\n\nFor every branch that sheds its crown,\nIs just a mirror turned around.\nThough tears mix with the decaying brown,\nShe weeps for what is cast down.\n\nThe season changes without sound,\nUntil the final leaf is found.", 6, "The rewrite  \n\n\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e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1], [88, "ultra_held_out", "Sonnet 16 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning", "Elizabeth Barrett Browning", "A poem about a speaker dedicating herself to newfound love and happiness, overcoming past sorrow with the protection of her beloved.", "And yet, because thou overcomest so,\nBecause thou art more noble and like a king,\nThou canst prevail against my fears and fling\nThy purple round me, till my heart shall grow\nToo close against thine heart henceforth to know\nHow it shook when alone. Why, conquering\nMay prove as lordly and complete a thing\nIn lifting upward, as in crushing low!\nAnd as a vanquished soldier yields his sword\nTo one who lifts him from the bloody earth,\nEven so, Beloved, I at last record,\nHere ends my strife. If thou invite me forth,\nI rise above abasement at the word.\nMake thy love larger to enlarge my worth.", "The shadows that once clung to my skin\nHave finally begun to fade,\nReplaced by a light I thought was lost,\nA warmth the cold could never invade.\nI lay down the heavy stones of grief,\nThe tears I cried in silence long,\nFor you have built a shelter here,\nWhere broken things are made strong.\n\nYour hand is the wall against the storm,\nYour voice the calm within the rain,\nI step out from the ruins of yesterday,\nTo walk again through fields of green.\nNo longer do I fear the night,\nOr wonder if the dawn will come,\nFor in your arms, the past dissolves,\nAnd leaves me safe and overcome.\n\nI give my heart, no longer fractured,\nTo this new and tender day,\nLet sorrow be a distant memory,\nWashed clean and far away.\nHere in your gaze, I find my home,\nA happiness I cannot name,\nDedicated wholly to the love\nThat healed me without blame.", "The winter Edward \u2013 Edward 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\u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013", 1, "The winter of my heart has finally thawed\nAs icy shadows slip away from view\nNo longer by the hollow ache were drawn\nBut to the shelter offered up by you\nI lay aside the armor I had worn\nOf guarded days and silence steeped in gray\nFor all the tears that cried themselves were torn\nTo wash the heavy dust of years away\nYour hands have built a wall against the pain\nThat once defined the edges of my soul\nWhere sorrow walked like driving, stinging rain\nYou brought the light to mend the broken whole\nAnd here I stand with open arms and breath\nReady to live beyond the edge of death\nNot as a survivor of the fall\nBut yours, who answers happiness's call\nSo let the past be buried in the snow\nWhile we watch spring begin its tender growth\nIn every step your loving confidence\nHas taught my spirit how to love and laugh\nThe joy I knew was but a fleeting guest\nBefore you came and settled in my breast\nNow happy hours stretch out before our feet\nProtected by the strength of such a sweet\nDevotion that no storm can ever shake\nA promise that for all our lives we'll take\nThis radiant path where laughter starts anew\nMy whole self given over wholly to\nThe man who stopped the hurting and the crying\nWho watched his own bright world come back alive\nWith me beside him walking side by side\nWith nowhere left for sadness or for hide\nOnly the warmth of being loved again\nBy whom I was always meant to remain\nDedicated now to all things good\nUnderstanding at last exactly why\nLove lifted up her head from where she stood\nIn darkness 'neath a indifferent sky\nIt is not easy nor was it quick\nTo learn to trust another after such\nA long and difficult and painful trick\nPlayed by the cruel and unrelenting luck\nBut seeing in your eyes a steady fire\nReturns the appetite for life and desire\nTo feel the sun and taste the morning dew\nAnd know that all of it belongs to you\nWho holds the key to locking out the night\nWho guards the door and sets the lamps alight\nNo more alone to face the coming gloom\nBut safe and warm within our common room\nWhere happiness resides and never leaves\nSupported by the affection that believes\nIn second chances and in new beginnings\nIn washing all the bitter memory rinsing\nAway with tenderness and time\nHealing every wound and every crime\nThat poverty of spirit dealt\nWhen hope seemed killed and all was otherwise\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected", 7, "The winter of my heart has finally broken\nAs spring returns to fields I thought were dead\nNo longer by the ghosts of sorrow spoken\nI lift my head and let the light instead\nFall softly on the scars that time had marked\nAnd wash them clean with hands you hold so tight\nFor every tear that once was painfully dark\nNow drowns in morning's golden, gentle light\nYou stand between the shadows and my skin\nA shield against the winds that used to blow\nWhere darkness ended, new beginnings begin\nAnd all the old despair is gone below\nI give myself to joy without a fear\nTo love that guards the happiness we share\nThe past is silent now, the path is clear\nWith you beside me, breathing easy air\nNo storm can reach us here where we have grown\nProtected by the promise of your hand\nThis garden of our life is fully sown\nIn soil rich enough for all to stand\nSo let the world outside spin on its way\nWhile I remain within this sacred space\nDedicated wholly to this brighter day\nEnfolded in your warm and steady grace", 7, "The winter in my bones has finally thawed\nSince you stepped in to shield me from the rain\nNo longer do I fear the storm that raged\nOr count the shadows of a broken chain\nYou hold me close and turn the page for me\nTo stories where the light begins to bloom\nAnd all the grief I carried silently\nIs swept away to clear a brighter room\nI lay down armor forged in years of pain\nAnd let your gentle hands unbind my heart\nFor in your gaze, there is no trace of strain\nOnly a new and hopeful fresh start\nSo here I stand, devoted and awake\nWith happiness as mine to keep and hold\nA promise that I will not ever break\nWithin the safety of your arms so bold\nLet sorrow fade like mist before the sun\nAs I give all my love to you alone\nThe battle fought and won by just one\nWho guides me safely to a better home", 7, "The winter of my heart has finally broken,\nAs frost retreats beneath a gentle sun.\nNo longer do I walk alone and shaken,\nOr fear the shadows where the day is done.\n\nYou stand between me and the storm's old fury,\nA shield against the ghosts that used to haunt.\nYour love is now my quiet, steady story,\nWhere every tear finds safe and soft account.\n\nI cast aside the heavy cloak of sorrow,\nAnd trade the gray for colors bright and new.\nFor in your arms, I find a brighter morrow,\nAnd wake each day with hope instead of blue.\n\nLet past regrets dissolve like mist at morning,\nReplaced by warmth that only you can give.\nMy spirit rises, no more cold or warning,\nBut learning how to truly live again.", 7, "The winter of my heart has finally thawed\nAs shadows retreat before your gentle light,\nNo longer do I walk the path I walked alone,\nBeneath a sky that once was gray and tight.\n\nI lay my heavy armor at your feet,\nFor every scar you hold with tender care,\nYou shield me now from winds that used to break,\nAnd weave a safety net within the air.\n\nThe tears I cried for what was lost remain,\nBut now they wash the soil where hope takes root,\nYour hand is steady on my trembling shoulder,\nA quiet promise that dispels the brute.\n\nI give myself to this new dawn we share,\nTo laughter loud enough to drown the past,\nWith you as guardian against the storm,\nMy sorrow fades, and happiness is cast.", 7, "The winter in my chest has finally thawed,\nRevealing soil where seeds of joy can grow.\nI lay the heavy cloak of grief aside,\nAnd let the sun dissolve the ghostly snow.\n\nNo longer do I walk the path alone,\nWith shadows trailing close behind my feet.\nYour hand is now the shield against the storm,\nA fortress built on promises so sweet.\n\nThe tears that once were salt within my eyes,\nNow turn to light reflecting off your face.\nYou hold me safe within this quiet peace,\nAnd give my weary spirit gentle grace.\n\nSo here I stand, reborn beneath your gaze,\nWith sorrow lost beneath a deeper sea.\nMy heart belongs entirely to you now,\nDedicated fully to what we will be.", 7, "The shadows that I carried deep within my chest have finally faded,\nReplaced by golden light that streams beneath the canopy above.\nI cast away the heavy chains of memories made only to break me,\nAnd wrap myself within the quiet safety of this newfound love.\n\nNo storm can touch us now so long as you stand guard beside my side,\nFor in your eyes I find a harbor where the fractured pieces heal.\nThe tears I shed beneath the gray mist turn into rain for blooming pride,\nAs every scar becomes a map leading toward what is truly real.\n\nSo let the wind erase the echoes of the nights I walked alone,\nI give my heart entirely to write this gentle story with you.", 7, " rewrite", 1], [91, "train", "Musee des Beaux Arts by W.H. Auden", "W.H. Auden", "A poem about suffering going unnoticed as it fades into the background while others continue ploughing, sailing, and going about their mundane lives.", "About suffering they were never wrong,\nThe old Masters: how well they understood\nIts human position: how it takes place\nWhile someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;\nHow, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting\nFor the miraculous birth, there always must be\nChildren who did not specially want it to happen, skating\nOn a pond at the edge of the wood:\nThey never forgot\nThat even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course\nAnyhow in a corner, some untidy spot\nWhere the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse\nScratches its innocent behind on a tree.\nIn Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away\nQuite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may\nHave heard the splash, the forsaken cry,\nBut for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone\nAs it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green\nWater, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen\nSomething amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,\nHad somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.", "The crack in the wall widens by a hair\nwhile the baker kneads his dough with rhythmic care\nthe ship cuts through the gray and rolling foam\nand no one looks to see where I have come\n\nMy silence is a stone beneath the floor\nthat settles deeper as they walk out the door\nthey plough the fields and sing of harvest gold\nunaware of the story left untold\n\nThe wind blows hard against the window pane\nbut drowns the sound of my quiet, slow decline\nthey sail on waves that crash and turn to white\noblivious to the fading of the light\n\nSo let the world spin on its busy axis\nwhile I become a ghost within the matrix\nof daily tasks and ordinary grace\nerasing me without a single trace", "Otherwise\notherwise\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\n", 1, "The pain was sharp enough to tear the skin\nBut grew dull as wood in wet December air\nIt settled low where shadows often begin\nAnd learned to sit quite still and nowhere near\nWhile farmers drove their horses down the row\nTheir hands all callous from the working years\nThey watched the clouds but never saw it grow\nOr heard the silent weeping of theears\nA ship sailed out on tides indifferent\nWith sails full of a wind that knew no grief\nIt passed the bay where suffering had been sent\nTo live unnoticed like a passing leaf\nThey went about the buying and the selling\nOf things that mattered only for the day\nWhile all the agony they were not feeling\nJust faded back and slipped far, far away\nNo notice taken when the heart grew heavy\nNo pause in work when spirits started sinking\nThe world moved on, impatient and unsteady\nLeaving the broken part of man thinking\nThat silence was the loudest sound of all\nAs life returned to ordinary ways\nIgnoring how the unseen figures fall\nInto the background of the busy days\nThe plough goes straight, the pennants flap and fly\nThe boats are manned by those who know not why\nSome suffer most when nobody looks on\nThen slowly, softly, sufferance is gone\nNot killed or cured but simply pushed aside\nTo join the dust of nowhere else besides\nWhere others laugh and eat and live and see\nNothing but themselves and liberty\nThe mundane life returns to all its glory\nErasing any record of the sorrow\nLeaving behind a pale and hollow memory\nThat none will ever wonder at tomorrow\nThe ship arrives, the harvest fills the bin\nThe suffering has entered back again\nNot as a guest but as a ghostly trace\nBehind the smiling and familiar face\nOf everyone who lives and works and plays\nBlind to the darkness hiding in the rays\nOf morning light that touches everything\nExcept the notes of joyless mourning\nWhich have dissolved into the common space\nLike water dropped and then rubbed off a face\nBy busy hands that care for other things\nWhile suffering learns to be invisible\nAmong the many whom it cannot kill\nOnly to hide and wait for next year's ill\nWhen once more it must learn to sit unseen\nIn all the busy hours of the routine\nThat marches on with boots of sturdy leather\nUnmoved by cries from anywhere or ever\nDisappearing while the bells all ring\nAbout the news of spring and summer thing\nWhile someone somewhere bears a weight unknown\nAnd walks alone along a road of stone\nThat leads nowhere except back home\nTo sit and watch the daily drama roam\nUnnoticed by the passing of the feet\nWho march along the busy city street\nToo late to notice all the pain\nThat lingers in the falling autumn rain\nThat washes over fields and roads and towns\nBut never drowns the shouting nor the frowns\nOf those who live their lives without a care\nFor all the invisible despair\nThat hides in corners of the public view\nWaiting for nothing but a chance to renew\nIts silent vigil in the empty room\nWhile all the world asserts its noisy gloom\nOf trivial concerns and happy sights\nBlocking out all the terrible and fright\nOf those who suffer in the dead of night\nWhen all the lamps are burned and all the lights\nHave failed to reach the edges of the soul\nWhere broken pieces try to stay whole\nIn vain attempts to be seen\nBy those who live among the happy scene\nWho sail and sow and sell and buy\nWithout a thought of why\nWhy some must bear such loads\nWhile others walk abroad\nOn roads of easy going\nWhere suffering is borrowing\nTime from a future none\nHas bothered to have begun\nTo ask about the ones\nWho hide from all the suns\nThat shine on all the poor\nWho suffer and endure\nInvisible and bare\nWhile all the world declares\nThat all is well and bright\nAnd all the coming sight\nWill bring a happier day\nIf only one could say\nHow much it hurts to be\nUnknown and unseen\nBy those who pass you by\nIn all your misery\nGoing about their lives\nWhile yours dissolves\nIn all\nthe\nbackground\nof\ntheir\ncalls\nand\nnews\nthat\nnever\ncomes\nto\nnews\nabout\nyour\npain\nthat\nfades\naway\nagain\nand\nagain\nwhile\nothers\ngo\nabout\ntheir\ndaily\nway\nunmoved\nby\nall\nthat\nwent\nastray\nin\nprivate\nhours\nof\nthe\nday\nwhen\nno\none\nelse\nwas\nthere\nto\nsay\nthat\nit\nwas\nhard\nto\nbear\nor\nthat\nit\nwas\nnot\nfair\nthat\nyou\nwere\nleft\nto\nstand\nalone\nwith\nnone\nto\ncall\nyou\nhome\nor\nask\nhow\nwent", 7, "The ache settles deep in the floorboards\nwhile the farmer turns his heavy furrow\nignoring the tremor in the earth\nthat signals nothing but a shift of dust.\n\nA ship cuts white foam through the grey\nand the sailor mends his torn net\nnever hearing the silence screaming\nfrom the hull below the waterline.\n\nChildren laugh in the kitchen\nstirring soup that smells of thyme\nas the shadow in the corner\ndissolves into the afternoon light.\n\nNo one stops to watch it fade\nno hand reaches out to hold\nthe quiet thing that breaks\nwhile the world insists on moving forward\nonward, onward, never looking back\nat the ruin left behind\nin the blind and busy rush\nof ordinary days.", 2, "The wound has grown so quiet now\nIt wears the skin like second cloth\nWhile ploughmen turn the heavy earth\nAnd do not feel the sudden loss\n\nA sailor charts the shifting wind\nWith eyes fixed on a distant star\nHe never sees the shadow sink\nBeneath the keel of where we are\n\nThe baker kneads his rising dough\nThe child chases a rolling stone\nThey walk the paths they always know\nLeaving the broken ones alone\n\nThe silence grows to fill the room\nAs ordinary days proceed\nA flower blooms inside the gloom\nThat no one stops to look or heed\n\nWe fade into the background hum\nOf carts and wheels and daily sound\nUntil the suffering becomes numb\nAnd simply is no longer found", 6, "The crack in the wall widens slowly\nwhile the baker kneads his dough\nand the river keeps its steady course\nignoring the stone that sinks below.\n\nA shadow lengthens on the floor\nas the farmer turns the heavy plough\nthe sail catches wind and moves away\nleaving the silence standing now.\n\nNo one sees the color fade\nfrom the window where the light grows thin\nthe world rolls on with tireless feet\nletting the quiet hurt begin.\n\nThey walk past the broken door\nthey steer their ships through storm and calm\nthe background hums a steady tune\nthat drowns out every silent alarm.\n\nAnd so it fades into the gray\na whisper lost beneath the sound\nof daily life moving forward\nwhile suffering stays quietly bound.", 6, "The crack in the wall widens slowly\nwhile the plough turns the earth with rhythmic ease\nand no one looks to see the dust settle on the beam\nor how the silence grows heavy in the corner\n\nA ship cuts through the grey water\nits sails full of wind that does not know my name\nthe crew sings a song about distant shores\nignoring the ghost that drifts beneath their keel\n\nCoffee steams in a cup on a busy street\nshoes click against pavement, a steady drumbeat\nof lives moving forward, unbroken and bright\npast the shadow that shrinks into the floorboards\n\nI am becoming part of the wallpaper now\na faint stain that the sun forgets to warm\nas the world spins on its axis of noise and light\ncarrying its cargo of ordinary things", 3, "The wound does not bleed upon the cobblestone\nIt simply cools into a grey static hum\nWhile the ploughman turns the earth in heavy rows\nUnaware that something breaks beneath his boot\n\nA ship cuts through the morning mist and foam\nIts crew singing songs of wind and distant shore\nThey do not hear the silence growing deep inside the hull\nOr the quiet fracture widening in the dark\n\nCoffee steams on tables where the world is made of noise\nAnd lovers argue over bills and broken glass\nThe sun climbs high to dry the sweat on every brow\nIgnoring how the shadow lengthens in the corner\n\nNo one stops to check the pulse that slows to nothing\nAs the cart rolls on, the sails fill tight with air\nThe mundane tide rises up to swallow what remains\nUntil the fading pain is just another part of the weather", 5, "The plow turns deep into the turning soil,\nAnd splits the quiet ground without a sound.\nAbove, the wind continues to make trails,\nAs sails expand upon the shifting tide.\n\nI fade beneath the rust of rusting chains,\nA shadow cast beneath a noon so bright.\nNo eye is turned to check the unraveling thread,\nFor every gaze is fixed on what lies ahead.\n\nThey write their letters, fix the broken gate,\nAnd mix the paint upon the porch's frame.\nMy silence joins the hum of distant bees,\nJust static noise within the drone of day.\n\nThe vessel cuts the foam with steady stroke,\nUnmindful that I sink within its wake.\nThe world moves forward, vast and unimpaired,\nWhile I dissolve into the droning draft.", 6, "The rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite 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rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite", 1], [93, "ultra_held_out", "Balloons by Sylvia Plath", "Sylvia Plath", "\"A poem about finding fleeting beauty in ordinary things, only to be pulled back into a harsh reality that shatters innocence and childhood dreams.\"", "Since Christmas they have lived with us,\nGuileless and clear,\nOval soul-animals,\nTaking up half the space,\nMoving and rubbing on the silk\n\nInvisible air drifts,\nGiving a shriek and pop\nWhen attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.\nYellow cathead, blue fish\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\nSuch queer moons we live with\n\nInstead of dead furniture!\nStraw mats, white walls\nAnd these traveling\nGlobes of thin air, red, green,\nDelighting\n\nThe heart like wishes or free\nPeacocks blessing\nOld ground with a feather\nBeaten in starry metals.\nYour small\n\nBrother is making\nHis balloon squeak like a cat.\nSeeming to see\nA funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,\nHe bites,\n\nThen sits\nBack, fat jug\nContemplating a world clear as water.\nA red\nShred in his little fist.\n5 February 1963", "The dust motes danced in afternoon light\nLike tiny stars trapped in a jar of air\nI held my breath to catch their flight\nAnd found a universe beyond compare\n\nA dandelion clock upon the lawn\nHeld secrets of the wind I could not know\nThe world was soft before the dawn\nWith colors only children seem to grow\n\nBut then the door slammed hard and deep\nA voice that cut the silence like a knife\nWoke me from the quiet, golden sleep\nTo show the jagged edges of real life\n\nThe stars turned back to floating dust\nThe magic faded with the setting sun\nThe trust we placed in dreams was crushed\nBy things we knew were never meant to be done\n\nNow innocence is just a broken thing\nLeft on the floor where shadows start to creep\nWhile childhood songs no longer sing\nAnd promises are buried in our sleep", "The dew\nwas a \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The dew clung to the spiderweb\nA million diamonds in the morning light\nI saw a universe in that thin silver strand\nWhere children were kings and monsters were shy\nWe ran through fields of tall, green grass\nBelieving the world was soft and whole\nThat every broken twig grew back\nAnd pain was just a rumor from far away\nBut then the bell rang sharp and sudden\nCalling us back to concrete floors\nThe web snapped under a careless shoe\nDissolving into invisible dust\nThe sky opened up not with wonder\nBut with gray clouds heavy as stone\nDreams shattered like glass on hard pavement\nLeaving only edges sharp enough to cut\nInnocence bled out on the sidewalk\nAs we grew up too fast\nTo notice the beauty\nOr care about getting burned\nAgain\nAgain\nAlways\nReturning\nto\nthe\nhard\nedge\nof\nnow\nwhere\nnothing\nelse\nis\nreal\nbut\nthis\nstark\nand\nsilent\npain\nthat\nnever\nwent\naway\nit\nonly\nwaited\nfor\nus\nto\nlook\naway\nfrom\nthe\nlight\nbefore\nsnatching\nit\nback\nwith\ncold\nhands\nthat\nknow\nno\njoy\nonly\nthe\nend\nof\neverything\nwe\nonce\nwere\nthinking\nwas\nforever\nbut\nwas\nnever\nmore\nthan\na\nbreath\nheld\ntoo\nlong\nthen\nreleased\ninto\nthe\nempty\nair\nof\nadulthood\nwhere\nno\nmagic\nlives\nonly\nthe\ndull\nthud\nof\nfootsteps\non\ndead\nground\nchasing\nghosts\nof\nwho\nwe\nused\nto\nbe\nwhile\ntime\nrushes\nby\nunmoved\nby\nour\ntears\nor\nour\nwonder\nor\nour\nneed\nto\nbelieve\nin\nanything\nother\nthan\nthe\nnext\nhard\nstep\nforward\ninto\nthe\ndark\nthat\nhas\nalways\nbeen\nthere\nwaiting\nbehind\nevery\npretty\npicture\nwe\ntried\nto\ndraw\nover\nit\nwith\ncrayons\nthat\nhave\nlong\nsince\nrun\nout\nof\ncolor\nleaving\nonly\nwhite\nspace\nand\nshadows\nstretching\nout\nto\nmeet\nus\nat\nthe\ndoor\nof\nanother\nday\nthat\noffers\nno\nnew\nstories\nonly\nold\nones\nretold\nwith\nheavier\nvoices\nand\neyes\nthat\nhave\nseen\ntoo\nmuch\nto\never\nclose\nthem\nagain\nwithout\nfeeling\nthe\nweight\nof\nall\nthat\nwas\nlost\nnot\njust\nyesterday\nbut\nevery\nsingle\nmoment\nof\nfalse\nhope\nthat\nsaid\nit\nwould\nget\nbetter\nwhen\nreally\nit\nonly\ngot\nharder\nand\nquieter\nand\nmore\nalone\nas\nthe\nworld\nkept\nspinning\nblind\nto\nour\nsmall\nheartbreak\nwhich\nwas\nbig\nenough\nto\nstop\nour\nhearts\nif\nwe\nlet\nit\nbut\nwe\ndidn't\nwe\nkept\nwalking\nbecause\nthat\nwas\nall\nthere\nwas\nleft\nto\ndo\nafter\nthe\ndream\ndied\nand\nthe\nweb\nbroke\nand\nthe\nchild\ninside\nstopped\ncrying\nbecause\nshe\nknew\nno\none\nwas\ncoming\nto\nsave\nher\nfrom\nbeing\ngrown\nup\nfrom\nhaving\nto\nface\nthe\ntruth\nthat\nwas\nalways\nhiding\nright\nunder\nneath\nall\nthat\nbeautiful\nlying\nabout\nhappy\nendings\nthat\nnever\ncame\nexcept\nin\nbooks\nthat\nwere\nthrown\naway\nyears\nago\nwhen\nwe\nlearned\nthat\nlife\ndoesn't\nhave\npages\nit\nonly\nhas\nseconds\nthat\nvanish\nbefore\nyou\ncan\neven\nsay\ntheir\nnames\nbefore\nyou\ncan\nsay\ngoodbye\nto\nthe\nlast\nlittle\nbit\nof\nmagic\nthat\nmade\nit\nall\nseem\npossible\nto\nbegin\nwith\nnow\ngone\nlike\nthe\nmorning\ndew\nthat\nnever\nreturned\nto\nwet\nthe\nearth\nagain\nonly\nheat\nonly\ndust\nonly\nthe\nsound\nof\nyour\nown\nfoot\nfalls\nechoing\nback\nfrom\nwalls\nthat\nwill\nnever\ntalk\nback\nto\nask\n", 2, "The dandelion clock held the whole summer sky\nIn a puff of white that drifted slow and high\nA universe of seeds on a breath of air\nWhere nothing ever had to worry or care\nI watched them spin in the golden afternoon light\nThinking I could catch one and hold it tight\nBut the wind grew cold and the shadows stretched long\nAnd the song of the bird turned suddenly wrong\nThen the door slammed shut with a violent sound\nAnd the world rushed back where no peace is found\nThe pavement cracked under feet that were small\nAs the fairy tale ended and silence fell all\nNo more magic dust on the edge of the street\nJust the gray concrete and the bitter defeat\nOf a child who learned that the pretty things break\nAnd the dreams we held are the first ones to shake\nNow the ordinary stares with a hollow eye\nWhile the innocence dies as the clouds go by\nShattered glass on the floor of the mind\nLeaving only the harsh truth far behind.", 6, "A dandelion pushes through the crack\nWhere sunlight spills in gold and warm\nI hold my breath to catch the light\nBefore it fades like morning dew\n\nThe world was soft, a painted dream\nOf endless summers, safe and bright\nNo shadows stretched across the grass\nNo heavy clouds to block the sun\n\nThen came the sound of breaking glass\nA sudden shout, a slamming door\nThe golden light turned cold and gray\nAs truth rushed in to steal the air\n\nThe flower crushed beneath a boot\nThe dream dissolved in bitter rain\nNow only concrete hardens here\nAnd innocence is lost to pain", 6, "The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light\nWere fairies holding hands in golden flight,\nA secret world where time stood still and sweet,\nWith magic hiding underneath my feet.\nI watched a dandelion turn to seed,\nAnd thought it was a wish I could indeed\nMake come true if I just closed my eyes tight,\nBelieving in the soft and gentle night.\n\nBut then the screen door slammed against the frame,\nAnd shattered all the quiet, fragile game.\nThe fairy dust dissolved into the gray,\nAs harsh words cut the happy day away.\nThe dandelion was just a weed to kill,\nBeneath the weight of grown-up, cold chill.\nNo wishes left to catch upon the breeze,\nJust empty streets and rusted iron keys.", 7, "The dandelion clock holds the sun\nin a thousand tiny golden spheres,\na wish made of wind and dust,\nwhere time moves slow and soft.\n\nI catch the light in my cupped hands,\nbelieving the world is made of glass that never breaks,\nthat the magic of morning will last forever,\nthat I am safe inside this quiet dream.\n\nThen the heavy door slams shut,\nand the cold air rushes in to steal the breath,\nshattering the fragile gold into gray ash.\n\nThe streetlights flicker on with a harsh buzz,\nrevealing cracks in the pavement and shadows deep as holes,\nthe innocence dissolving like mist under a scorching sun.\n\nNow I stand alone in the noise,\nholding nothing but the memory of what was lost,\nwatching the child within me fade into the dark.", 6, "The sunlight caught the dust motes dancing slow\nAbove the kitchen floor where I once played,\nA golden galaxy in quiet flow,\nWhere make-believe castles never fade.\n\nI held my breath to keep the magic there,\nTo let the world dissolve into soft light,\nBut then a car alarm cut through the air,\nAnd shadows stretched across the fading white.\n\nThe glass of hope I'd cradled in my hands,\nCracked under weight of bills and broken trust,\nRevealing cracks within these quiet lands,\nTurning the gold to rust and turning dust.\n\nNow innocence retreats behind the eyes,\nAs childhood dreams are swept beneath the rug,\nBeneath the gray and unforgiving skies,\nWhere nothing stays, and everything is shrug.", 6, "The sunlight caught the dust motes dancing slow above the rug,\nTurning gray specks into gold within a quiet afternoon.\nI held my breath to catch the perfect pattern of a moth upon the glass,\nBelieving magic lived beneath this humble patch of polish.\n\nThe world felt soft as velvet, wrapped in colors made for make-believe,\nWhere castles rise from cardboard boxes and dragons sleep beneath the bed.\nI whispered promises to shadows that they'd keep forever kind,\nAnd let the rustle of dry leaves rewrite the script of what is true.\n\nThen rain began to drum against the window with a cold, metallic sound,\nRevealing cracks within the plaster where the mold has started deep.\nThe moth beat wings until it fractured, lost within its final flight,\nAnd silence turned into a void where no reply can make me wake.", 3, "\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\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1], [96, "ultra_held_out", "Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman", "Walt Whitman", "A poem about a speaker embarking on an open road journey, freely choosing his own destiny and carrying life's burdens with him as they arise.", "Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,\nHealthy, free, the world before me,\nThe long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. \n\nHenceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,\nHenceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,\nDone with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,\nStrong and content I travel the open road.\n\nThe earth, that is sufficient,\nI do not want the constellations any nearer,\nI know they are very well where they are,\nI know they suffice for those who belong to them.\n\n(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,\nI carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,\nI swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,\nI am fill\u2019d with them, and I will fill them in return.)", "The asphalt stretches out a gray and endless tongue\nI step away from walls that held me too long\nNo map is folded in my pocket now\nJust the wind that whispers where to bow\n\nI do not know the name of any town I'll find\nOnly the rhythm beating in my mind\nTo choose the path, to turn when shadows grow\nAnd let the future bloom or fade or flow\n\nIf sorrow comes it rides beside me on the seat\nA heavy coat I wear when rain and sleet\nAre falling hard upon the dusty glass\nI carry every weight as hours pass\n\nFor burdens are the anchors of the soul\nThat keep the spirit whole when cracks appear\nI take them up with hands both open wide\nAnd walk until the turning point inside\n\nThe horizon calls a promise unconfined\nLeaving the old and broken things behind\nNot running from the pain that makes us real\nBut driving forward with the things we feel", "The map dissolves in morning dust\nas tires kiss the hairpin curves\nwhere nowhere \u2013 nowhere \u2013\nopens like a mouth\nready to taste\nthe uninvented hours\nselected\nnot by gods or dates\nbut by impulse\nby breath\nby sudden joy\nthat tastes\nof gas pennuch\nand\nend\ncoming\nnext\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter", 1, "The asphalt stretches out like a silent vow\nUnder a sky that asks for nothing\nOnly the engine hums a low and steady prayer\nAs I steer away from maps drawn by other hands\nThere is no destination marked in stars\nOnly the next hill and the next breath\nI carry the heavy stones of yesterday\nNot as anchors but as ballast\nTo keep the ship steady when the winds grow sharp\nJoy comes lightly on the breeze\nSorrow settles in the passenger seat\nBoth are mine to hold\nBoth are mine to let go\nThe road demands no confession\nIt only offers motion\nAnd in this endless rolling\nI am whole\nI am free\nI am driving\nStraight into the unknown\nWith all my weight\nAnd all my wonder\nIn tow\nThe horizon waits\nNot with an answer\nBut with another mile\nAnother choice\nAnother chance\nTo be\nExactly who\nI am\nBecoming\nOne\nMore\nStep\nAway\nFrom\nWhere\nI\nBegan\nToward\nWhere\nNothing\nIs\nCertain\nExcept\nThe\nWheel\nIn\nMy\nHands\nAnd\nThe\nRoad\nBefore\nMe\nStretching\nOn\nForever\nUnbroken\nBy\nFear\nOr\nTime\nJust\nMoving\nMoving\nMoving\nForward\nAlways\nForward\nCarrying\nEverything\nThat\nMatters\nLeaving\nNothing\nBehind\nBut\nFootprints\nThat\nThe\nWind\nWill\nSoon\nBlow\nAway\nWhile\nI\nDrive\nOn\nInto\nThe\nLight\nOf\nMy\nOwn\nMaking\nSelected\nChosen\nMine\nAlone\nAt\nLast\nFree\nTo\nBe\nBurdened\nAnd\nWhole\nAll\nAt\nOnce\nOn\nThis\nOpen\nWay\nWhere\nEvery\nKilometer\nIs\nA\nNew\nBeginning\nWaiting\nFor\nMe\nTo\nArrive\nNot\nFinished\nNever\nFinished\nJust\nDriving\n Driving\n Driving\n Home\n To\n Wherever\n Next\n Stops\n Calling\n Out\n My\n Name\n In\n The\n Language\n Of\n Tires\n On\n Dry\n Earth\n Saying\n Only\n Go\n Go\n Go\n And\n See\n What\n Comes\n Next\n As\n It\n Arises\n As\n It\n Must\n Unfolding\n Like\n A\n Map\n Drawn\n In\n Real\n Time\n By\n Hands\n That\n Know\n How\n To\n Hold\n Both\n Grief\n And\n Grace\n Without\n Trembling\n Because\n The\n Road\n Is\n Long\n But\n The\n Heart\n Is\n Strong\n Enough\n To\n Bear\n It\n All\n Towards\n The\n Edge\n Of\n Sight\n Where\n Destiny\n Waits\n Not\n As\n A\n Prize\n But\n As\n A\n Partner\n Walking\n Beside\n Me\n In\n The\n Dust\n Of\n Our\n Own\n Making\n Ready\n For\n Whatever\n Happens\n Next\n Ready\n To\n Carry\n It\n All\n Again\n Again\n Again\n On\n This\n Open\n Road\n Where\n We\n Are\n Always\n Leaving\n Never\n Arriving\n Always\n Becoming\n Always\n Free\n Always\n Mine\n Always\n Now\n Going\n Going\n Going\n Away\n From\n Everything\n Else\n Toward\n Only\n This\n Moment\n Bright\n Sharp\n Clear\n And\n Whole\n As\n It\n Rises\n Up\n Before\n Us\n Like\n A\n New\n Day\n Begun\n By\n Choice\n By\n Will\n By\n Desire\n To\n Move\n To\n Be\n To\n Live\n With\n Weight\n In\n Hand\n And\n Light\n In\n Soul\n Driving\n On\n Driving\n On\n Driving\n On\n Forever\n Here\n There\n Everywhere\n In\n Motion\n In\n Truth\n In\n Life\n Unfiltered\n Unedited\n Unstopped\n By\n Doubt\n Or\n Denial\n Just\n Moving\n Straight\n Ahead\n Into\n The\n Unknown\n Known\n Only\n By\n Feeling\n It\n Coming\n Coming\n Coming\n Close\n To\n Who\n We\n Really\n Are\n When\n No\n One\n Else\n Is\n Watching\n Except\n The\n Sky\n And\n The\n Road\n And\n The\n Man\n Driving\n Himself\n Home\n To\n His\n Own\n Two\n Feet\n Stepping\n Out\n Of\n History\n Into\n Story\n Being\n Written\n Page\n By\n Page\n Mile\n By\n Mile\n Breath\n By\n Breath\n Load\n By\n Load\n Joy\n By\n Joy\n Sorrow\n By\n Sorrow\n All\n Accepted\n All\n Carried\n All\n Loved\n All\n Mine\n All\n Mine\n All\n Mine\n To\n Keep\n To\n Lose\n To\n Find\n Again\n On\n This\n Open\n Road\n Where\n Nothing", 5, "The asphalt stretches out like a ribbon unspooled\nAnd I step forward without asking permission\nNo map to dictate the curves of the day\nOnly the wind and the weight in my hands\nSome days the load is light as a feather\nJust the dust of yesterday clinging to my boots\nOther times it grows heavy with grief or doubt\nA stone I must carry before I can lift\nBut I do not set it down by the roadside\nI do not beg for an easier path\nFor every burden earned is a part of the story\nEvery sorrow a mile marker on this long road\nI choose the horizon that pulls at my chest\nI choose the unknown that waits in the dark\nWith all that I am and all that I bear\nI walk where I will until the wheels stop turning\nFree to be broken and free to be whole\nCarrying it all as I go.", 6, "The asphalt stretches out a ribbon gray\nWhere I decide the miles and where they end\nNo map to guide the turning of the day\nNo master's voice to say which way to bend\n\nI walk with empty hands at first but soon\nThe weight begins to gather on my skin\nA heavy stone of sorrow from last June\nAnd dust that clings to where the rain has been\n\nI do not drop them by the roadside weeds\nNor throw them in the river as I pass\nThey are the seeds of all the things I need\nTo build the shelter from the coming glass\n\nLet the wind howl its warnings through the trees\nLet the horizon shift and pull away\nI carry every burden that brings ease\nAnd choose the path that leads into the day\n\nMy destiny is not a written line\nBut something forged in every step I take\nWith all the joy and grief that I define\nAs long as there is breath and earth to shake", 6, "The asphalt stretches out a gray ribbon\nUnfurling toward a horizon I have never seen\nNo map in hand, no voice to tell me where to turn\nOnly the hum of tires and the wind's soft plea\nI step forward with a backpack light as air\nYet heavy with the stones I chose to keep\nThe grief that shaped my hands, the joy that broke my sleep\nThese are not chains but compass points to steer\nBy day I walk where shadows lengthen long\nBy night I rest beneath a sky of shifting stars\nIf sorrow finds me on this winding path\nI will not drop it by the roadside dust\nI carry it until it turns to something new\nA lesson etched into the rhythm of my stride\nThe road is mine to carve, the destination mine to name\nAnd every burden lifted or laid down\nIs simply part of how I learn to be\nFree to go, free to stay, free to bear it all.", 6, "The asphalt stretches out a ribbon gray\nAnd I step forward where the shadows play\nNo map is held within my open hand\nJust this wide sky and this uncharted land\n\nI do not run from what the past has brought\nNor leave behind the lessons that were taught\nFor every stone of sorrow, sharp and deep\nIs something that my weary soul must keep\n\nThe wind will bring its storms to wash me clean\nOr rain to fill the spaces in between\nI carry them as travelers carry weight\nAccepting what is given by the fate\n\nOf rising suns and falling evening light\nI walk alone but never truly tight\nAgainst the world or bound by chains of old\nMy story is the road that I unfold\n\nSo let the burdens rise as clouds appear\nI'll walk with them until the end is near\nFor destiny is not a place to find\nBut just the path I choose to leave behind", 7, "The asphalt stretches out like a ribbon of gray\nAnd I step forward without asking where the sun will rise today.\nNo map is folded in my pocket, no plan to make or break,\nJust the hum of tires and the wind that whispers what I choose to take.\n\nI carry the heavy stones of yesterday upon my back,\nThe grief that turned to dust, the love that left a crack.\nThey do not weigh me down so much as anchor me to ground,\nA reminder that the weight I bear is part of what is found.\n\nLet the burdens come as clouds that drift across the sky,\nI will not run from shadow, nor pretend that I am dry.\nFor every tear that falls along this endless, winding line,\nIs proof that I am walking, proof that I am truly mine.\n\nThe horizon calls a promise written only for my eyes,\nTo write my own tomorrow beneath these shifting skies.\nSo let the journey twist and turn, let storms roll through the night,\nI walk with open hands to hold both darkness and the light.", 6, "The engine hums a quiet tune beneath the rising sun,\nNo written map to fix my path, no final place to run.\nI turn the wheel toward the mist and let the world unwind,\nLeaving behind the static noise I'd tangled deep within.\n\nI do not pack for what will break, I carry what is now,\nThe weight of yesterday's regret, the sweat upon my brow.\nIf storms roll in across the plain, I'll make them part of me,\nFor burdens are just heavy stones that make the journey deep.\n\nLet others chase the promised land where light forever stays,\nI choose this winding, dusty thread that leads into the haze.\nMy destiny is carved in tire tracks, rewritten every mile,\nA story written sentence by sentence with each turning trail.\n\nSo let the rain rewrite my coat, let wind rewrite my song,\nI walk this open road alone, though wrongs make right so long.", 6, "The rewrite check polish refine rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [114, "ultra_held_out", "Chorus of the Captains by Amanda Gorman", "Amanda Gorman", "\"A poem about three American heroes working to benefit their communities and bring the country together during the COVID-19 pandemic.\"", "Today we honor our three captains\nFor their actions and impact in\nA time of uncertainty and need.\nThey\u2019ve taken the lead,\nExceeding all expectations and limitations\nUplifting their communities and neighbors\nAs leaders, healers, and educators.\n\nJames has felt the wounds of warfare,\nBut this warrior still shares\nHis home with at-risk kids.\nDuring Covid, he\u2019s event lent a hand,\nLive-streaming football for family and fans.\n\nTrimaine is an educator who works nonstop,\nProviding his community with hotspots,\nLaptops, and tech workshops,\nSo his students have all the tools\nThey need to succeed in life and school.\n\nSuzie is the ICU nurse manager at a Tampa Hospital.\nHer chronicles prove that even in tragedy, hope is possible.\nShe lost her grandmothers to the pandemic,\nAnd fights to save other lives in the ICU battle zone,\nDefining the frontline heroes risking their lives for our own.\n\nLet us walk with these warriors,\nCharge on with these champions,\nAnd carry forth the call of our captains!\nWe celebrate them by acting\nWith courage and compassion,\nBy doing what is right and just.\nFor while we honor them today,\nIt is them who every day honor us", "In a quiet town where silence grew,\nA nurse named Elena worked to heal the few,\nShe held the hands of those afraid to speak,\nAnd found the strength within the weak.\n\nAcross the state, a farmer named Tom drove his truck,\nTo deliver food to families in luck or lack,\nHe left fresh produce at every door,\nSo no one went hungry on the floor.\n\nThen came a teacher, Marcus, with a laptop screen,\nWho taught the young from a living room scene,\nHe bridged the gap when schools closed tight,\nAnd kept the future burning bright.\n\nThree different paths but one common goal,\nTo mend the broken and make the spirit whole,\nThey showed that love is stronger than the fear,\nAnd brought the nation closer year by year.", "In kitchens dipped in sterile white\nWhere Robert tended sick all night\nHe drove his poor\u5173\u5207\nThrough freezing \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 2, "In kitchens where the morning light grew pale\nA baker fired his ovens through the night\nTo send warm loaves to those who lacked for all\nAnd taught his neighbors how to hold on tight\nHe saw no borders drawn by sick or poor\nOnly a table set for everyone\nWhere hunger ended at his kitchen door\nAnd solidarity was bought and won\n\nAnother drove his truck through empty streets\nWith masks and gowns he sourced from far away\nHe worked when others hid behind their sheets\nTo bring protection to the front lines of the fray\nHis hands were rough but touched with tender care\nAs he unloaded boxes in the snow\nEnsuring every hospital had air\nAnd nowhere else was left without a glow\n\nThen came a voice that rang from hill to hill\nWho spoke of science not as distant law\nBut as a bridge to cross our common ill\nCalling for patience and a loving awe\nShe asked us wash our hands and stay apart\nNot out of fear but love for whom we knew\nTo mend the tearing fabric of our heart\nAnd see ourselves in all who passed us through\nThree different paths converged in one great road\nTo bear the weight of such a heavy year\nWe lifted up a nation all unloaded\nBy courage clear and strong and always near\nNo hero stands alone among his kin\nWhen three such lives are poured in public good\nThe country starts to heal from deep within\nUnited by the way we understood\nThat serving others is the only way\nTo walk together through the dark and come\nBack home again to greet another day\nAs brothers and as sisters all become\nOne people working hard to see it through\nThree heroes showed the world how love begins\nWhen ordinary lives are bent to do\nWhat God demands of all who live and win\nNot glory nor a medal nor a prize\nBut simply being there when darkness falls\nTo open wide our otherwise closed eyes\nAnd hear the ringing of community calls\nFrom coast to coast the spirit starts to grow\nThrough bread and medicine and words of grace\nShowing the strength that comes from letting go\nOf selfishness and finding time and space\nTo be the hand that holds another up\nDuring the storm that shook the earth and sea\nTo fill the very bottom of the cup\nAnd drink the joy of liberty\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning whole\nReturning home\nReturning", 7, "In the quiet hours when the world held its breath\nThree figures moved where the shadows were long\nOne in a white coat, fighting death with a stitch\nMending the sick while singing a song\nAnother drove through the rain and the snow\nWith boxes of food for the hungry and poor\nLeaving no neighbor behind in the cold\nOpening up every locked kitchen door\nThe third stood tall at the schoolhouse gate\nTeaching from screens with a voice full of care\nShowing that learning could happen anywhere\nEven when classrooms were empty and bare\nThey did not seek glory or medals or fame\nBut worked for the good of the whole and the one\nBinding the fractures of country and home\nUntil the dark passed and the morning had come\nTogether they showed us the strength of our hands\nWhen we reach out to lift up the fallen and weak\nProving that love is the language we speak\nAnd that healing begins when we choose to be brave\nThree heroes who taught us how unity saves\nIn the heart of the storm, they kept hope alive\nFor the many, the few, and everyone else\nBringing America back to the life we all knew\nBefore the virus tried to tear us apart\nNow mended by courage and shared working hearts\nWe stand as one people, united and strong\nReady to face whatever days may belong\nTo the spirit of service that never grows old\nA story of three who were brave and were bold\nWho gave all they had so that none would be lost\nCounting the cost but refusing the frost\nOf isolation that sought to divide\nBy offering friendship and staying inside\nNot to hide from the danger but tend to the need\nPlanting the seeds of a future to feed\nWith kindness as water and patience as sun\nThe work of these heroes was only begun\nWhen we see their example in all that we do\nWe know that together we always get through.", 7, "In a quiet town where silence grew,\nA nurse in blue kept vigil through the gray,\nShe held the hands of those who came to say\nGoodbye to loved ones lost to morning dew.\nHer mask was stained but spirit never bent,\nShe fought the virus with a steady hand,\nAnd built a bridge across the sea of sand\nWhere fear and isolation were all that went.\n\nAcross the state a teacher turned his home\nInto a classroom bright with digital light,\nHe taught the children how to stay upright\nWhen chaos threatened to become their dome.\nHe sent warm words to parents feeling small,\nHe made sure no one slipped behind the door,\nAnd proved that learning matters more than evermore,\nConnecting hearts within each virtual wall.\n\nThen came a man who drove a truck at dawn,\nThrough empty highways stretching far and wide,\nWith masks and food he had nowhere to hide\nThe kindness that from every heart was drawn.\nHe dropped off supplies at sheltered doors,\nHe waved to strangers from a safe distance,\nA simple act of genuine insistence\nThat we are stronger when we share our stores.\n\nThree different paths, one purpose clear and true,\nTo heal the wounds that time had not yet mended,\nTheir stories show how love can be extended\nTo make the broken world feel new again.\nThey did not seek a medal or a crown,\nBut worked to bind the fabric of the land,\nWith open arms and an outstretched hand,\nBringing the people back together down.", 7, "In the quiet hum of a city holding its breath,\nA nurse in scrubs stood guard against the shadow of death,\nHer hands were tired but her spirit remained unbroken,\nHealing strangers while her own heart silently spoke.\n\nAcross the valley where the silence grew deep,\nA teacher logged on while the world fell asleep,\nWith a screen as a window and a voice full of grace,\nShe kept hope alive for every lost face.\n\nThen a farmer drove out to the edge of the town,\nTo drop off fresh food so no one would drown,\nHe left bags at the door with a note that said \"share,\"\nProving kindness is all we really need there.\n\nThree different paths but one common thread,\nOf service and love when the light seemed to fade,\nThey stitched up the nation with threads made of care,\nAnd showed us together we can still repair.", 7, "In the quiet hum of a city street,\nA nurse in blue with weary eyes,\nShe held the hand that feared to meet,\nAnd whispered hope beneath gray skies.\n\nAcross the land where silence grew,\nA teacher stood with screen and light,\nWho made the distant lessons true,\nAnd kept the future burning bright.\n\nThen came the hands that built the wall,\nWith masks and meals for every door,\nThey answered when the people called,\nTo heal the rifts and fix the floor.\n\nThree threads woven in time's great loom,\nThough different paths they chose to tread,\nThey turned the shadows into bloom,\nAnd led the weary from the dead.\n\nNo flag could fly so high or proud,\nAs service given without name,\nThey rose above the fear and cloud,\nTo write a new and stronger frame.", 7, "In a quiet corner of a bustling town,\nA nurse in scrubs stood guard against the crown,\nHer face marked deep beneath a mask so tight,\nYet holding hope through every long and sleepless night.\n\nAcross the state, a teacher turned his screen,\nTo bring the light to kids who could not be seen,\nHe bridged the gap with patience, kind and true,\nEnsuring no young mind would drift from view.\n\nAnd in the streets where silence filled the air,\nA volunteer delivered food with care,\nFrom door to door he walked without a fear,\nTo make sure neighbors felt that help was near.\n\nThough miles apart they served in different ways,\nThey shared one goal to guide us through these days,\nUnited hearts within a fractured land,\nRebuilding trust with gentle, steady hand.", 7, "In quiet halls where silence used to reign,\nA nurse in scrubs held hope against the rain.\nWith mask pulled tight and eyes that gave so deep,\nShe woke the weary while the rest would sleep.\n\nAcross the street where shadows started long,\nA teacher typed until the break of dawn.\nThrough static screens she bridged the divide,\nSo no young mind would have to walk alone inside.\n\nAnd deep within a rusting warehouse space,\nA volunteer with kindness found its place.\nHe packed the boxes, stacked the meal so true,\nTo make sure strangers shared what they could do.\n\nNo capes required, just hearts beat bold and warm,\nTo keep this fractured land from breaking reform.", 7, " beneath\u6539\u5199 rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [130, "ultra_held_out", "Table Talk by Wallace Stevens", "Wallace Stevens", "\"A poem about contemplating how life's events and preferences are random and ultimately inconsequential, with death being the only certainty.\"", "Granted, we die for good.\nLife, then, is largely a thing\nOf happens to like, not should.\n\nAnd that, too, granted, why\nDo I happen to like red bush,\nGrey grass and green-gray sky?\n\nWhat else remains? But red,\nGray, green, why those of all?\nThat is not what I said:\n\nNot those of all. But those.\nOne likes what one happens to like.\nOne likes the way red grows.\n\nIt cannot matter at all.\nHappens to like is one\nOf the ways things happen to fall.", "We choose our colors with a trembling hand\nAnd argue over shades of blue and red\nAs if the canvas matters to the sand\nOr how the quiet river fills the bed\n\nThe taste of coffee, bitter or too sweet\nThe path we walk that leads us nowhere near\nAre just the echoes of a random beat\nThat fades into the silence of the year\n\nNo grand design explains why this or that\nWhy one is loved and one is left behind\nA coin flips high within a cosmic hat\nAnd lands on nothing that the mind can find\n\nSo let us build our castles in the air\nAnd claim they stand against the coming tide\nFor death is waiting everywhere\nWith nowhere left for us to run or hide\n\nIt does not care for what we held so dear\nThe plans we made, the loves we thought were true\nIt simply comes to make the atmosphere\nOf all our certainty turn into dew\n\nIn the end the noise becomes a hum\nThe choices blur into a single gray\nThe light goes out before it even comes\nTo take the random dust of life away", "We rush to pick a favorite color\nor Sorge about which door opened\nthinking the selection mattered\nthat having differed\nfrom whom otherwise\nhad all\nappeared relevant\nbut none\nselected\nby\nselection\nwas\never\nelse\nbut\nchance\nthen\ncomes\nthe\nend\nof\nall\nsuch\nnot\nvery\nimportant\nnews\nfor\neveryone\nwho\nwent\nelse\notherwise\nnone\nselected\nby\nselection\nwere\nelse\nbut\ndeath\nthat\nonly\nsure\nnews\ncomes\nto\nall\nelse\nelse\nnone\nselected\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\n", 1, "We spend our days selecting tastes\nfrom menus none of us invented\narguing over shades of blue\nthat nobody else has ever seen\nwhile chance deals out the hands\nwith indifferent, shaking fingers\nwho wins a race or who gets sick\ndepends on luck and not on worth\nwe map our lives with rigid lines\nof joy and grief and sudden loss\nas if these paths were drawn by gods\nbut really just by tossed-up coins\nthe favorites we hold most dear\nwill seem irrelevant to all\nwhen silence comes to claim the room\nand earth returns its borrowed dust\nfor in the end the only truth\nis that the heart must stop its beat\neverything else was passing noise\nin front of death's inevitable door\nwhere all selections come undone\nand nothing matters but the dark\nthat waits for everyone alike\nto swallow every choice we made\nand wash away the trivial\nthat once seemed important\nthen\nnothing\nthen\nend\nthen\nstillness\nthen\ngone\nthen\nnone\nthen\nno\nthen\nnow\nthen\nnever\nthen\ndeath\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\nthen\nnone\nthen\ngone\nthen\ndark\nthen\nall\nthen\nnone\nthen\nend\nthen\nstill\n", 2, "We argue over shades of blue\nand map our paths with trembling hands,\nbelieving every choice we make\nis drawn by some grand master's plans.\nBut chance is just a spinning wheel\nthat drops the coin and lets it fall,\nno reason why we love this street\nor why we hate that distant wall.\nThe joys we clutch and fears we hold\nare accidents of time and place,\na flicker in a vast dark room\nwith no one watching from their space.\nIt matters not if we are kind\nor cruel, or rich or poor or free,\nthe universe does not record\nthe tiny stories meant to be.\nFor all the noise of living things\nand all the dreams we try to keep,\nthere waits a silence at the end\nwhere even random chances sleep.\nThe only truth we hold so tight\nis that the breath must leave the lung,\nthe final certainty that comes\nwhen all the songs of life are sung.", 6, "We argue over colors that the wind might choose\nAnd build our castles on a shifting sand\nWhile chance decides the path we think we chose\nAnd pulls the strings of every trembling hand\n\nThe taste of coffee or the song we hum\nAre accidents of time and circumstance\nNo grand design to which our spirits come\nJust rolling dice within a hollow dance\n\nWe cling to likes as if they mean the world\nAs if our preferences hold weight or power\nBut silence waits behind the final door\nTo sweep away the flower and the tower\n\nFor all the noise, the love, the hate, the fear\nIs dust that settles when the breath is gone\nThere is no meaning waiting anywhere\nExcept the dark where everything moves on", 6, "The coin flips in the air and lands on heads,\nWe build a life around that single chance,\nChoosing this road or that one instead,\nWhile fate rolls dice behind a blindfold dance.\n\nThe coffee we prefer, the songs we love,\nAre accidents of taste and shifting light,\nAs random as the clouds above,\nThat vanish by the coming of the night.\n\nWe argue over things that do not matter,\nDefend our trivial and fleeting views,\nIgnoring how the world is just a chatter,\nOf noise that dies when silence starts to brew.\n\nNo grand design explains the specific way,\nWe stumbled through the chaos of the years,\nJust scattered grains of sand at break of day,\nDissolving into nothing but our fears.\n\nFor all the plans we make with such great care,\nAnd every preference we hold so dear,\nThey crumble like the windblown dust in air,\nWhen death arrives to end the final year.\n\nIt waits for us without a sound or face,\nTo claim the random choices we have made,\nThe only truth within this empty space,\nIs that the game will surely fade away.", 7, "We argue over shades of blue\nand choose the path we think is true,\nassigning weight to trivial things,\nthe song that plays, the bird that sings.\n\nA coin flips high in empty air,\ndeciding who will win or share,\na random spin of fate's dull wheel,\nwith no design to make it real.\n\nThe love we hold so tight and deep,\nthe promises we mean to keep,\nare just a flicker in the dark,\nbefore the final, silent spark.\n\nNo grand design for what we do,\nno reason why we choose this view,\njust chaos dressed in human guise,\nbeneath the vast and starless skies.\n\nFor all the noise and frantic race,\nthe time we waste, the lost embrace,\none truth remains when lights go low:\nthe quiet end is all we know.", 7, "We argue over colors of the sky\nAnd build our castles on a shifting sand,\nUnaware that every choice we make,\nIs just a coin flipped by a blind hand.\n\nThe coffee we prefer, the road we take,\nThe lovers lost to time and tide,\nAre random sparks within the dark,\nWith nothing left for us inside.\n\nNo grand design connects the threads,\nNo meaning woven in the fray,\nJust chaos dancing through the void,\nUntil the final light decays.\n\nFor all this noise, this love, this fear,\nThis frantic race to prove we're here,\nWill fade into the quiet deep,\nWhere silence is the only thing we keep.\n\nThe only truth the stars can tell,\nIs written in the cold, still air:\nThat life is but a fleeting breath,\nAnd death is waiting everywhere.", 6, "The coffee stain upon the rug,\nthe specific song that made you weep,\nthe quiet choice of what to wear,\nare threads within a tapestry so deep.\n\nWe build our castles out of chance,\nassigning meaning to the rain,\nbelieving patterns make us make,\nmistaking noise for something plain.\n\nYet whether green is truly green,\nor blue feels vast beneath the sky,\nis lost within the turning tide,\nas shadows shorten, soft and dry.\n\nNo verdict written in the stone,\nno final score beneath the sun,\njust silence waiting at the end,\nuntil the random thread is spun.\n\nFor every preference fades away,\neach fleeting hope dissolves into mist,\nleaving only this alone:", 6, "AI rewrite", 7], [135, "ultra_held_out", "The Field of Waterloo by Thomas Hardy", "Thomas Hardy", "\"A poem about little creatures such as rabbits, moles, swallows, and larks suffering and being affected by the horrid atmosphere of a battlefield as warhorses progress across the field, leaving nothing normal again in their wake.\"", "Yea, the coneys are scared by the thud of hoofs,\nAnd their white scuts flash at their vanishing heels,\nAnd swallows abandon the hamlet-roofs.The mole\u2019s tunnelled chambers are crushed by wheels,\nThe lark\u2019s eggs scattered, their owners fled;\nAnd the hedgehog\u2019s household the sapper unseals.The snail draws in at the terrible tread,\nBut in vain; he is crushed by the felloe-rim.\nThe worm asks what can be overhead,And wriggles deep from a scene so grim,\nAnd guesses him safe; for he does not know\nWhat a foul red flood will be soaking him!Beaten about by the heel and toe\nAre butterflies, sick of the day\u2019s long rheum,\nTo die of a worse than the weather-foe.Trodden and bruised to a miry tomb\nAre ears that have greened but will never be gold,\nAnd flowers in the bud that will never bloom.", "The burrow shakes beneath the hooves of iron\nAs rabbits freeze in tunnels deep and dark\nNo longer safe from fox or winter's chill\nBut trembling at the thunder of the charge\n\nThe mole forgets the rhythm of the earth\nWhen heavy boots crush roots and turn the soil\nTo mud that chokes the quiet, hidden life\nAnd leaves no path for tiny paws to roam\n\nAbove, the swallow dives through smoke and ash\nHer song replaced by screams of dying men\nShe seeks a branch that once was green and high\nNow shattered by the falling weight of war\n\nThe lark ascends but finds no morning light\nOnly a sky choked thick with gray despair\nHer flight is broken by the clatter close\nAs horses tear the grassy fields apart\n\nNothing remains as it was yesterday\nThe field is scarred, the air is sharp and cold\nAnd little creatures flee the endless noise\nWith nowhere left to hide, no home to hold", "The rabbits froze in hollow\nears pressed flat as killing\nwent\nthen came the shaking\nof great \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The little rabbit trembles in the burrow\nas the heavy earth begins to shake\nnot from spring rain or a passing badger\nbut from the thunder of iron-shod feet\nthat crush the tender shoots of grass\nwhere once it gathered clover and dew\nwhile far above, the swallow dips\nonly to be struck by the shockwave\nof shouting men and crashing steel\nits nest of mud blown from the eaves\nto tangle in the hair of dying horses\nwho stomp with blind and terrible rage\nthe mole feels the vibration in his dark\nand curls his nose away from the scent\nof burning oil and wet copper blood\nthat seeps down through the soil\npoisoning the roots he loves\nthen comes the lark who tried to sing\nbut found her throat seized by gas\nor drowned out by the scream of shells\nas the great warhorses trample on\nleaving no root unbroken\nno feather whole\nno silence returned\nonly the churned and ruined earth\nwhere nothing normal grows again\nnor breathes\nnor lives\nin the horrid wake\nof those who came to kill\nand killed the very air\nthat held them all\nbefore\nthe killing\nstarted\nthere\nnow\nnothing\nremains\nbut\ndust\nand\nfear\nand\ndeath\nstamping\non\nfor\never\nmore\nacross\nthe\nfield\nthat\nwas\nonce\nhome\nto\nall\nthe\nsmall\nand\nquiet\nthings\nthat\nhad\nno\nchoice\nbut\nto\nend\ntheir\ndays\nbeneath\nthe\nshadows\nof\nthe\ngreat\nand\nterrible\nwar\nthat\nleft\nno\ntrace\nof\nspring\nbehind\nonly\nthe\nmemory\nof\nwhat\nused\nto\nbe\nwhen\nrabbits\nran\nand\nmoles\nwere\nblind\nto\npain\nand\nbirds\nsang\nfree\nfrom\nman\nwho\nbrought\nthe\nnight\ndown\nhard\nand\nflat\nupon\nthem\nall\nwith\nsuch\na\nhorror\nnone\ncould\nsee\ncoming\nfrom\nthe\nsky\nor\nearth\nor\nsea\nor\n anywhere\nelse\nat\nall\nexcept\nright\nhere\nwhere\nthey\nall\nfell\nand\nnever\ngot\nup\nagain\nto\nsee\nanother\nday\nor\nfeel\nanother\nray\nof\nsun\nor\nmoon\nor\nstar\nor\nanything\nelse\nthat\nmight\nhave\nbeen\nif\nonly\nwar\nhad\nnever\ncome\nto\nsteal\nit\nall\naway\nfrom\neveryone\nwho\nlived\nthere\nfirst\nbefore\nthe\nhorses\ncame\nto\ntrample\neverything\nthat\nmoved\nor\nbreathed\nor\nthought\nor\nfelt\nor\ndreamed\nof\npeace\nor\nlove\nor\njoy\nor\nany\nother\ngood\nthing\nthat\nwar\ndestroyed\nby\nbeing\nthere\nat\nall\nand\ndoing\nall\nthat\nbad\nand\nevil\nwork\nof\nkilling\nevery\nlittle\ncreature\nthat\nhad\ndone\nno\nwrong\nat\nall\nexcept\nperhaps\nto\nlive\ntoo\nloud\nor\nrun\ntoo\nfast\nor\nfly\ntoo\nhigh\nor\ndig\ntoo\ndeep\nor\nhide\ntoo\nwell\nfrom\nthose\nwho\ncame\nto\nkill\nthem\nall\nand\nleave\nnothing\nnormal\never\nmore\nto\nbe\nfound\namong\nthe\ndead\nand\ndying\nfields\nof\nwar\nthat\ntook\nit\nall\naway\nfrom\nrabbits\nand\nfrom\nmoles\nfrom\nswallows\nand\nfrom\nlarks\nfrom\nall\nthe\nlittle\ncreatures\nwho\nhad\nno\npart\nin\nman\nhis\nmad\nand\nsenseless\nfight\nthat\nended\nup\nby\nending\nthem\nall\ntoo\nalong\nwith\nhim\nwho\nstarted\nit\nall\nout\nof\nsome\ndark\nheart\nthat\nhad\nno\nroom\nfor\nlife\nor\nlove\nor\npeace\nor\nany\nother\nhappy\nthing\nthat\nmight\nhave\nsaved\nthem\nall\nfrom\nsuch\na\nsad\nand\nterrible\nend\nthat\ncame\nfrom\nwar\nand\nwent\nfrom\nthere\nto\nkill\nthem\nall\nand\nleave\nno\ntrace\nof\nthem\nbehind\nexcept\nthe\nbones\nthat\nbleached\nand\nturned\nto\ndust\nlike\n", 2, "The burrow shakes before the thunder starts\nAs rabbits freeze in hollows of the earth\nTheir trembling hearts forget the springtime arts\nOf digging soft and safe from sudden death\nThe mole, who knew the dark as home and friend\nNow feels the heavy iron crush the ground\nWhere roots once drank the rain and quietly bend\nBeneath a sky that knows no peace is found\n\nAbove, the swallows dip in frantic flight\nTrying to weave through smoke that chokes the air\nWhile larks, who sang of morning's golden light\nAre silenced by the roar of war's despair\nThen comes the horse, a mountain made of bone\nWith hooves that shatter stone and grass and bone\nA rolling tide of muscle, sweat, and groan\nThat leaves no seed for any life to own\n\nThe field is torn where little lives were kept\nNo shelter left for those who hid below\nThe warhorse strides while all the world has wept\nAnd turns the green to mud and blood and woe\nNothing remains of what was sweet and small\nJust trampled silence where the birds once called\nThe normal world is broken by the fall\nOf heavy feet that leave nothing at all", 6, "The burrow shakes before the thunder starts\nAs rabbits freeze in shadows of the grass\nWhere once they dug their quiet, safe retreats\nNow iron hooves crush roots and shatter earth\nThe mole who knew the secret paths below\nIs tossed into the light by shaking ground\nHis dark world shattered by the heavy tread\nOf warhorses that know no gentle touch\n\nAbove the churned and sucking mud of death\nThe swallow dips too low to catch a fly\nHer wings are clipped by smoke that chokes the air\nWhile larks who sang of morning's golden dew\nAre silenced by the scream of falling steel\nNo song remains to mark the turning sky\nOnly the rhythm of the pounding feet\nThat leaves no patch of green or flower whole\n\nThe field was soft with life and hidden nests\nBefore the cavalry came rolling through\nNow nothing breathes but dust and fear and pain\nAnd all the little creatures lose their home\nTo be swept away beneath the crushing weight\nOf men on beasts who bring only the end\nOf every normal thing that used to be\nLeaving a wasteland where the small ones died", 5, "The rabbit freezes in the clover deep\nAs thunder shakes the roots beneath its sleep\nNo burrow safe, no shadow left to hide\nWhen iron hooves come crashing from the tide\n\nThe mole who knew the quiet dark so well\nFeels sudden fire where cool damp tunnels dwell\nThe earth he loved is torn and churned to dust\nBy heavy boots and horses filled with lust\n\nAbove the swallows dive and frantic cry\nWhile smoke obscures the vast and open sky\nTheir nests of mud are scattered by the wind\nThat carries screams of men and dying kin\n\nThe lark that sang of morning's golden light\nIs silenced now by chaos and by night\nIts song replaced by neighs of terrified steeds\nWho trample down the fragile, living seeds\n\nNothing remains as it was before the fight\nJust broken stems and shadows in the night\nThe warhorses have passed with heavy tread\nAnd left a world where little creatures dread", 7, "The rabbit trembles in the clover deep,\nWhere silence used to hold the morning light,\nNow thunder shakes the roots beneath its sleep,\nAnd turns the gentle green to shades of night.\n\nA mole retreats within its earthen hall,\nAs hooves of iron crush the tunnel's roof,\nThe ground that held it safe begins to fall,\nLeaving no shelter for the small and proof.\n\nHigh above, the swallow drops its flight,\nFor smoke has choked the air it loved to chase,\nIt seeks a branch that stands against the light,\nBut finds only the scarred and broken space.\n\nThe lark, who sang of dawn with joyous throat,\nIs silenced by the drumming of the war,\nIts song is lost within the rising note\nOf metal beasts that trample every floor.\n\nThey pass like storms across the weary plain,\nWith eyes of fire and breath of dust and dread,\nNo flower blooms to soften up their stain,\nNo tiny heart can beat where they have tread.\n\nThe field is changed forever from this day,\nNo burrow safe, no nest left on the bough,\nJust shadows cast by horses far away,\nAnd creatures wondering what remains now.", 7, "The rabbit freezes in the clover patch,\nIts nose a-twitching at the scent of iron,\nBefore the thunder breaks the quiet sky,\nAnd hooves come down like hammers on the earth.\n\nThe mole retreats beneath the tangled roots,\nBut feels the ground convulse with heavy tread,\nAs warhorses march through tunnels deep and dark,\nTurning safe burrows into crumbling dust.\n\nAbove, the swallow dives to catch a fly,\nYet finds the air is thick with smoke and ash,\nWhile larks that sang their morning songs so clear,\nAre silenced by the clash of steel and fear.\n\nThe field is torn where gentle paws once ran,\nNo flower blooms within this scarred domain,\nFor where the cavalry has left its wake,\nNothing normal stays to breathe again.", 6, "The clover patch beneath the warhorse's hooves is torn to mud,\nWhere once a rabbit twitched its nose in safety now stands still.\nThe burrow deep where gentle moles made tunnels soft and cool,\nIs split apart by iron shodding, turning night into day.\n\nAbove, the swallow dives too low within the choking haze,\nAnd strikes the mist of gunpowder that stains the morning blue.\nThe lark, who sang so high above the green and quiet field,\nIs silenced by the thunder that makes the rafters shake.\n\nNo bud will bloom this season on the ground so deeply scarred,\nFor what was left for little wings is scattered, lost, and gone.\nThe rhythm of the heavy draft creates a final drum,\nThat beats until the heartbeat stops within each tiny chest.", 6, " beneath rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [142, "ultra_held_out", "Postfeminism by Brenda Shaughnessy", "Brenda Shaughnessy", "A poem about exploring the contrasting roles and divisions between people, spinning off from opposing archetypes to examine the different ways of addressing life through complicated and multilayered images.", "There are two kinds of people, soldiers and women,\nas Virginia Woolf said. Both for decoration only.\n\nNow that is too kind. It\u2019s technical: virgins and wolves.\nWe have choices now. Two little girls walk into a bar,\n\none orders a shirley temple. Shirley Temple\u2019s pimp\ncomes over and says you won\u2019t be sorry. She\u2019s a fine\n\npiece of work but she don\u2019t come cheap. Myself, I\u2019m\nin less fear of predators than of walking around\n\nin my mother\u2019s body. That\u2019s sneaky, that\u2019s more\nthan naked. Let\u2019s even it up: you go on fuming in your\n\ngray room. I am voracious alone. Blank and loose,\nmetallic lingerie. And rare black-tipped cigarettes\n\nin a handmade basket case. Which of us weaves\nthe world together with a quicker blur of armed\n\nseduction: your war-on-thugs, my body stockings.\nAscetic or carnivore. Men will crack your glaze\n\neven if you leave them before morning. Pigs\nride the sirens in packs. Ah, flesh, technoflesh,\n\nthere are two kinds of people. Hot with mixed\nlight, drunk on insult. You and me.", "Some build their homes from iron and the weight of measured stone\nWhile others sleep beneath the willow's breath in moss and unknown rain\nOne walks a path of straight lines drawn with ink that never fades\nThe other drifts on shifting sands where every footprint is erased\n\nThe architect counts bricks to find the truth within the wall\nThe poet listens for the silence that the mortar cannot hold\nThey speak different languages of time, of speed, of deep delay\nOne sees the clock as master, one sees it as a game to play\n\nIn the kitchen of the world, the baker kneads the heavy dough\nTo feed the hungry mouth with bread that rises, firm and slow\nBut the gardener tends the wild vine that climbs the fence unseen\nAnd offers fruit that tastes of storm and shadows, green and lean\n\nThere are those who guard the gate with keys of brass and rust\nWho fear the open door more than the lock inside the dust\nWhile others leave the hinges loose, inviting wind and ghost\nTo sweep through empty rooms where nothing but the light is lost\n\nTwo rivers run beside each other, one clear and cold and deep\nThe other muddy, churning fast with secrets it must keep\nThey do not mix until the sea, where salt dissolves the line\nAnd the diver and the sailor both forget which hand was mine\n\nWe are the hammer and the anvil, the spark and the coal\nThe rigid spine of order, the fluid soul of control\nYet in the mirror's fractured glass, we see the other face\nA shadow cast by our own light, a stranger in the place", "Some were born\nto hammer iron\nsetting teeth\nof_EDGE\nagainst\nelse\nwhile others\nwere\nalways\nliquid\nholding\nno\nedge\nonly\nthe\ncurvature\nof\notherwise\none\ncounts\nby\nblocks\nthat\nnever\nquite\nfit\nblocking\nout\nsky\nblock\nby\nblock\nto\nmap\ndominion\nwhere\nsize\nequals\nsense\nelse\nwho\nmeasure\nby\ncurrent\nby\nrush\nby\nwhy\nit\nwent\nfrom\nsource\nnot\nstorage\nbut\ntravel\nasking\nnot\nfor\nfirm\nfoot\nnot\nanchorman\nor\nchief\nof\nmine\nbut\nwho\nknow\nwater\nreturns\nthen\nreturns\nagain\ndrawing\nall\nsharp\nedges\nback\nto\nflat\nconfused\nby\nstraight\nlines\nthat\ncut\nhair\nnone\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse", 1, "One walks with a lantern of hammered copper\ncasting sharp edges on the gravel road\nwhile another carries a sieve of spider-silk\ncatching only the dust that falls from the stars\nthe first counts every step by the weight of his boots\nthe second measures distance by the breath between heartbeats\none builds a wall from bricks of frozen silence\nto keep the wolf of doubt from eating the hearth\nthe other digs a trench in the garden of memory\nto drown the weeds of certainty in liquid time\nthey meet at the bridge where the river forks\nnot to argue about which bank holds the truth\nbut to watch how the water splits and rejoins\ncarrying both the stone thrown by anger\nand the leaf tossed by laughter\ndown the same dark mouth\nwhere all definitions dissolve\ninto the rushing, indifferent white\nof a world that asks for neither\nthe hammer nor the hand\nonly the motion\nof falling\nor flying\nor simply\nbeing\nheld\nby\nboth\nat\nonce\nbefore\nthe\nnext\nfoot\ntouches\ndown\non\nthe\nunknown\nearth\nthat\nasks\nno\nquestions\nof\nwho\nwe\nwere\nwhen\nwe\nstarted\nwalking\naway\nfrom\neach\nother\nto\nlearn\nwhy\nwe\nhad\nto\npart\nin\norder\nto\nknow\nthat\nthe\nmap\nwas\nnever\nflat\nbut\nalways\nrolling\nlike\na\nserpent\neating\nits\nown\ntail\nof\nshadows\nand\nlight\ninterwoven\nin\nthe\nhair\nof\nevery\nliving\nthing\nthat\ndares\nto\nbreathe\nbetween\nthe\ntwo\npoles\nof\nour\ndividing\nsky\nwhere\nnight\nis\nnot\nan\nenemy\nof\nday\nbut\nits\nsecret\npartner\nholding\nhands\nbehind\nclosed\ncurtains\nof\ncloud\nwaiting\nfor\nthe\nsun\nto\nburn\noff\nthe\nedge\nof\nreason\nand\nlet\nthe\nmadness\nof\nbeauty\ncreep\nback\nin\nthrough\nthe\ncracks\nin\nall\nour\narmor\nof\nlogic\nand\ndream\nwearing\ndifferent\nmasks\nbut\nsharing\nthe\nsame\naching\nchin\nthat\naches\nfor\nsomething\nmore\nthan\nselection\nmore\nthan\nchoice\nmore\nthan\nthe\nhard\nbinary\nof\nwin\nor\nlose\nwhen\nlife\nis\njust\nthe\nrich\nconfusion\nof\nhaving\nboth\nhands\nfull\nof\nwater\nthat\ncannot\nbe\nheld\nby\neither\npalm\nalone\nbut\nmust\nspilled\nout\nonto\nthe\nground\nto\nfeed\nthe\nroots\nof\nboth\ntrees\nthat\ngrow\nup\nfrom\nthe\nsame\ndark\nrich\nmud\nof\nnot\nknowing\nwhich\nway\nis\nup\nwhen\ngravity\nitself\nhas\nbegun\nto\nlaugh\nat\nour\nserious\ndefinitions\nof\nnorth\nsouth\neast\nwest\nand\ncenter\nthat\nmove\nwith\nevery\nstep\nwe\ntake\naway\nfrom\nhome\nonly\nto\nreturn\nto\nfind\nthat\nhome\nwas\nnever\na\nplace\nbut\nthe\nspace\nbetween\nus\nthat\nstretches\nand\ncontracts\nlike\na\nlung\ndrawing\nin\nthe\nsharp\nair\nof\ndifference\nand\nexhaling\nthe\nwarm\nsmoke\nof\nshared\nsurprise\nthat\nrises\nslowly\nto\nbecome\nthe\nnext\ncloud\nblocking\nthe\nnext\nstar\nthat\nguides\nnone\nof\nus\nany\nmore\nthan\nthe\nlast\none\ndid\nexcept\nto\nshow\nthat\nthere\nare\nmany\npaths\nnone\nof\nthem\nstraight\nall\nof\nthem\ntwisted\nby\nthe\nhand\nof\nchance\nthat\nplays\ndice\nwith\nour\nbones\nwhile\nwe\nargue\nabout\nthe\nrules\nof\nthe\ngame\nthat\nwas\nalready\nover\nbefore\nwe\nentered\nthe\nroom\nwith\nour\nloud\nvoices\nand\nour\nquiet\nears\nlistening\nto\nthe\nsilence\nthat\nholds\neverything\ntogether\neven\nas\nwe\npull\napart\nlike\nrubber\nbands\nready\nto\nsnap\nback\ninto\nshape\nthat\nfits\nno\nmodel\nof\nperfection\nonly\nthe\nugly\nbeautiful\nmess\nof\ntrying\n", 2, "One walks with boots of iron,\nmeasuring the earth in straight and rigid lines,\nwhile the other drifts on a raft of woven reeds,\ntracing the river's erratic breath.\nThe first builds walls to hold back the tide,\ncataloging every drop in jars of glass,\nthe second dips a cup into the surge,\ndrinking the salt and the unknown together.\nWe are the architects of order,\nlaying bricks of logic in the freezing dark,\nand we are the gardeners of chaos,\nplanting seeds that grow only when ignored.\nSome speak in the sharp click of a lock,\nseeking the key that fits the single tumblers,\nothers hum a low note that shakes the foundation,\nopening doors where no hinges were ever placed.\nThere is the hand that holds the scalpel,\ncutting away the excess to reveal the bone,\nand the hand that offers the balm,\nsmearing the wound until it becomes a map.\nOne counts the stars to know their distance,\ncalculating the cold mathematics of light,\nthe other looks up and sees a story,\nwhere constellations are merely characters in a play.\nBetween the hammer and the loom,\nbetween the ledger and the diary,\nwe stretch ourselves thin across the divide,\ntrying to be both the shelter and the storm,\nholding the weight of the world in one palm\nwhile letting the wind slip through the fingers of the other.\nNo single path can carry all the heavy truths,\nso we walk side by side,\none looking at the ground to see the roots,\nthe other looking at the sky to see the birds,\nboth necessary for the tree to reach its height.", 6, "One walks with a lantern made of glass\nTo catch the falling dust of stars\nWhile the other wears armor forged from silence\nAnd counts the cracks in every wall they pass\n\nThe gardener plants seeds in frozen ground\nBelieving spring is just a matter of time\nThe architect draws blueprints on the wind\nConstructing towers that have no bottom or top line\n\nThey meet at the edge of a river that flows backward\nWhere the water remembers being rain\nOne tries to drink from a cup of broken mirrors\nThe other builds a dam to hold back the pain\n\nThere are those who speak in riddles of fire\nWho burn the bridge before crossing it whole\nAnd those who weave nets from spider silk\nTo catch the whispers of a distant soul\n\nThe clockmaker measures seconds in blood\nWhile the painter mixes colors from grief\nBoth search for the same hidden door\nBut one knocks with a fist and the other weaves a leaf\n\nIn the kitchen of the world, salt and sugar sit apart\nOne preserving the fruit, the other sweetening the decay\nWe are all both the storm and the shelter\nThe heavy anchor and the sail that slips away", 6, "One builds the wall with bricks of silence\nwhile the other paints the gate in shouting gold,\na fortress rising from the bedrock of the unspoken\nagainst a city built on stories told too loud.\n\nThe archer draws the bowstring tight with rigid spine\naiming for a single point of perfect stillness,\nwhereas the dancer spins in chaotic loops\ntrying to catch the wind that never stays.\n\nWe are the mason and the river,\nthe one who sets the stone to hold the earth,\nthe one who wears the valley down to dust,\nboth necessary, both forever at war.\n\nSome wear armor made of heavy logic\nto deflect the arrows of the irrational heart,\nwhile others swim in tides of raw sensation\ndrowning in the very currents they claim to love.\n\nThere is the gardener who prunes the wild growth\nseeking order in the tangled green,\nand the arsonist who feeds the hungry flame\nto see what blooms from ash and sudden light.\n\nThey meet in the middle where the shadows lengthen\nneither conqueror nor conquered, just two hands\nclasping the same complex, fractured thing\nthat breaks the mirror but holds the whole reflection.", 6, "The architect builds walls to keep the storm inside\nWhile the river erodes the foundation with a whisper,\nOne counts the bricks in rigid rows of gray and white,\nThe other measures depth by how the silt will rise.\n\nWe are split between the hand that holds the scalpel tight\nAnd the mouth that sings the fever into calm,\nA surgeon stitching silence into open wounds,\nA bard unraveling threads until the pattern breaks.\n\nSome walk the wire strung across the canyon's throat,\nBalancing on tension, fearing the drop below,\nWhile others dive beneath the surface without breath,\nLetting the pressure crush the lungs to find the pearl.\n\nThe clockmaker winds the gears to force the sun to rise,\nIgnoring how the light spills through the cracks it made,\nThe gardener waits for rain that never comes as planned,\nAccepting weeds as flowers in the tangled shade.\n\nOne writes the law in ink that dries before it speaks,\nDefining lines where shadows blur and merge,\nThe other paints the fog until the border disappears,\nDissolving boundaries into mist and memory.\n\nWe argue over maps drawn by those who never left,\nWhile travelers lose their way to find a different north,\nThe fortress stands against the tide with stone and pride,\nThe boat drifts with the current, trusting only water.\n\nPerhaps the division is a mirror cracked in two,\nReflecting half a face that cannot see the whole,\nUntil the wall dissolves into the river's flow,\nAnd the surgeon learns to sing while holding up the knife.", 6, "The architect builds walls of glass to keep the storm inside,\nWhile the gardener lets the ivy strangle the foundation stone.\nOne counts the bricks with fingers stained by mortar and by math,\nThe other waits for rain to write a script upon the bone.\n\nWe split the sky between the hawk that circles high and cold,\nAnd roots that drink the dark beneath where no sun dares to go.\nThe captain charts a course through fog with compasses of gold,\nThe sailor learns to float on tides that rise and ebb below.\n\nSome speak in sharp commands to carve the river into canals,\nWhile others whisper to the silt until it turns to sand.\nA fortress stands against the tide with iron gates and halls,\nA reed bends low to let the water pass across the land.\n\nThe mirror reflects only what is polished, clean, and bright,\nThe prism breaks the single beam into a fractured hue.\nOne seeks the center point where light collapses into night,\nThe other chases colors that the shadows make anew.\n\nSo we divide the human heart into the shield and spear,\nThe heavy plow that turns the soil and wings that cut the air.\nYet in the space between the fear and hope, the calm and dear,\nThe threads entangle so tightly that no single role can spare.", 6, "One builds the tower stone by stone until the shadow swallows the sun,\nWhile the other weaves a net beneath the tide to catch what is unraveling.\n\nThe architect speaks in right angles and rigid plans that break against the wind,\nThe drifter hums a tune without melody that changes shape with every turn.\n\nYou carve your name into the granite so time might remember you exist,\nI write my story on mist so it can rewrite itself before dawn breaks.\n\nWe stand on opposite banks of a river that reflects no single face,\nYou polish the lens until clarity distorts into blinding light,\nI adjust the focus until the world becomes soft, blurred, and kind.\n\nYour hand holds the chisel that creates boundaries between us,\nMy palm is open, holding rain that erases the line where we divide.\n\nSo let the fortress rise above the canyon's deep and echoing throat,\nAnd let the forest reclaim the path that leads into the quiet dark,\nFor safety is a cage crafted with perfect, unyielding bars,\nAnd freedom is a storm that reshapes the coast without apology.", 5, "The sculptor chisels silence into polish write refine rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [146, "ultra_held_out", "The Witch\u2019s Life by Anne Sexton", "Anne Sexton", "A poem about a speaker aging into the very \"witch\" she once misunderstood as a child, coming to embrace a hermit's life of overwhelming memories while choosing to carry on despite life's dreamlike uncertainties.", "When I was a child\nthere was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.\nAll day she peered from her second story\nwindow\nfrom behind the wrinkled curtains\nand sometimes she would open the window\nand yell: Get out of my life!\nShe had hair like kelp\nand a voice like a boulder.\n\nI think of her sometimes now\nand wonder if I am becoming her.\nMy shoes turn up like a jester's.\nClumps of my hair, as I write this,\ncurl up individually like toes.\nI am shoveling the children out,\nscoop after scoop.\nOnly my books anoint me,\nand a few friends,\nthose who reach into my veins.\nMaybe I am becoming a hermit,\nopening the door for only\na few special animals?\nMaybe my skull is too crowded\nand it has no opening through which\nto feed it soup?\nMaybe I have plugged up my sockets\nto keep the gods in?\nMaybe, although my heart\nis a kitten of butter,\nI am blowing it up like a zeppelin.\nYes. It is the witch's life,\nclimbing the primordial climb,\na dream within a dream,\nthen sitting here\nholding a basket of fire.", "I used to fear the woman in the woods\nwith eyes like cracked obsidian and hands that smelled of rain,\nthinking her solitude was a cage she built for herself.\nNow the mirror shows those same deep lines\nand I understand the silence was not empty,\nbut heavy with every ghost I ever knew.\nThe house is full of whispers now,\na library of moments I cannot burn or bury,\nand the world outside has blurred into a watercolor haze.\nThey call it madness when the past walks through the door,\nbut I have learned to brew tea for them instead.\nThe path is foggy, the future a dream I wake from daily,\nyet I sweep the porch and tend the garden roots,\nchoosing to stay in this quiet magic\nwhere the only spell left is the courage to endure.", "Little children threw pennins\nCalling her wicked hair\nCalled her worse\nScreaming monsters\nOverlooking\nHow much she knew\nAbout killing\nEdward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward 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Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward", 1, "I once ran screaming from the woman\nwho lived in the crooked house on the hill\nwhose hair was a tangle of winter ivy\nand whose hands smelled of burnt sage\nthinking her isolation was a punishment\nfor knowing things she had not been taught\nbut time is a slow editor\nthat cuts away the edges of who we were\nto fit us all back together\nnow I sit by the window\nwatching dust motes dance like spirits\nwhile the library of my head\noverflows with books nobody else opened\nthe neighbors call it madness\nor perhaps just age\nbut it feels more like returning home\nto a room where everyone lives\nwho ever loved or hurt me\nall talking at once\nin a language only memory understands\nsometimes the future looks\nlike a dream you cannot quite recall\nwaking up to questions without answers\nwhere did the years go\nwhy does the road look different\nfrom here\nbut the tea is hot\nand the kettle sings\nand though the shadows stretch long\nacross the floor\nI will not hide\nnor beg for sympathy\nfrom those who still fear the unknown\ninstead I brush off the hem of my dress\nwhich has grown heavy as earth\nand step out\nnot to bewitch\nbut simply to be\none who knows\nthat even in the strangest hours\nthere is a way\nto keep walking\ntoward the next strange\nbeautiful morning\nthat waits\njust beyond\nthe edge\nof sight\nwhere nothing\nis certain\nexcept\nthe breath\ndrawing\nnear\nagain\nand\nagain\nand\nagain\nuntil\nit\nstops\nonly\nthen\nwill\nwe\nknow\nif\nit\nwas\never\nmore\nthan\na\ndream\nat\nall\nbut\nfor\nnow\nthere\nis\nwork\nto\ndo\namong\nthe\nghosts\nwho\ncall\nme\nby\nmy\nreal\nname\nat\nlast\ncalling\nhome\nto\nthe\nwitch\nwho\nwas\nalways\nhere\nwaiting\nto\nbegin\nto\nlive\nrather\nthan\nend\nby\nbeing\nunderstood\nby\nnone\nbut\nself\nwho\nknows\nthat\nmemory\nis\nnot\na\ncurse\nbut\nthe\nonly\nmap\nwe\nhave\nleft\nto\nfollow\nthrough\nthe\ndark\nthat\nopens\nup\nto\nstars\nthat\nwere\nnever\ngone\nbut\nonly\nhidden\nbehind\nour\nears\nwhen\nwe\nwere\nchildren\ntoo\nafraid\nto\nlisten\nto\nthe\nwind\nthat\nwhispers\nof\ncoming\nback\nto\nstart\nover\nonce\nmore\nwith\nhands\nthat\nknow\nhow\nto\nhold\nboth\njoy\nand\ngrief\nwithout\nletting\ngo\nof\neither\nquite\nyet\nnot\nquite\nready\nto\nsay\ngoodbye\nto\nany\npart\nof\nthis\nlong\nstrange\nstory\nthat\nhas\nbecome\nmine\nto\nbear\nalone\nbut\nrichly\nfilled\nwith\nevery\nstep\ntaken\naway\nfrom\nfear\ninto\nthe\nquiet\nthat\nsounds\nmost\nlike\nlove\nwhen\nyou\nlearn\nto\nhear\nit\nright\nbeside\nyour\nheart\nthat\nbeats\non\nstrong\ndespite\nthe\nunknown\nthat\nlooms\nlarge\noutside\nthe\ndoor\nstill\nlocked\nby\nchoice\nby\ndesign\nby\nneed\nto\nsee\nclear\nbefore\ngoing\nout\nto\nmeet\nthe\nworld\nthat\nmay\nnot\nreturn\nbut\nthat\nmust\nbe\nmet\nwith\neyes\nwide\nopen\nto\nall\nthat\nwas\nand\nall\nthat\nmight\nbe\nnext\nin\nsilence\nthat\nspeaks\nlouder\nthan\nwords\never\ncould\nhave\nsaid\nabout\nbeing\nwhole\nabout\nbeing\nfree\nabout\nbeing\nwise\nenough\nto\nknow\nthat\nsometimes\nbeing\ncalled\na\nwitch\nmeans\nhaving\nsurvived\neverything\nelse\nthat\ntried\nto\nkill\nthe\nmagic\ninside\nbefore\nit\nhad\na\nchance\nto\nbloom\nfully\nbright\nand\nwild\nand\nunashamed\nof\nits\nown\nroots\ndeep\ndown\nin\nearth\nthat\nholds\nus\nall\nregardless\nof\nwho\nsays\notherwise\nor\nwhen\nthey\nsay\nit\nnext\nyear\nnext\ncentury\nnext\nlife\nnext\ndream\nnext\nthought\nnext\nbreath\nnext\nbeat\nnext\nmoment\n", 2, "I used to fear the woman in the hollowed oak\nwho gathered roots and whispered to the wind\na monster with a crooked spine and eyes\nthat saw the secrets of the sleeping child\nI ran away from shadows on the wall\nand prayed for sunlight that was bright and clear\nbut time has turned the pages of my skin\nto map the very lines I once denied\n\nNow I am she, the hermit of the hill\nwith hair like frost and hands that know the earth\nthe memories are heavy as a stone\nthey flood the room when silence starts to speak\nof lovers lost and seasons long since past\na library of grief I cannot burn\nyet in this cluttered, dreamlike uncertainty\nwhere edges blur and morning looks like night\nI choose to stay and tend the dying fire\n\nThe world outside is strange and shifting ground\na fever dream where logic loses hold\nbut here within my cabin made of doubt\nI brew the tea of all I have endured\nno longer running from the witch's face\nI see her wisdom in the creaking door\nand carry on through all the unknown hours\nembracing every ghost that walks the floor\nfor life is not a straight and certain road\nbut wild and winding, strange and wonderfully deep\nand I am home at last among the strange\nholding the weight of all I cannot forget\nand walking forward into what comes next.", 3, "I once ran from the woman in the crooked house\nwho whispered to the wind and burned sage for rain\nthinking her solitude was a cage of shadows\nthat I would never have to enter.\nNow the mirror holds that same sharp chin\nand eyes that have watched too many seasons turn\nwhile the world outside my door forgets my name.\nThe memories are not ghosts but heavy stones\npiled high in a room where no one visits\noverflowing with laughter lost and promises broken\na library of dust that only I can read.\nThey called it madness then, this retreat from noise\nbut now I see it as the only way to hold\nthe weight of all the years that slipped through fingers\nlike water or smoke or a dream you cannot catch.\nThe future is a fog that shifts with every breath\na story without an ending written in invisible ink\nyet I light the candle anyway and brew the tea\nfor there is no other path but this one forward\ninto the quiet, into the strange, into the self\nwhere the witch and the child finally meet and bow\nto the beautiful, terrible certainty of being here.", 2, "I once ran from the cottage in the woods\nWith eyes wide at the crooked spine and gray,\nThinking her magic was a curse of bad luck,\nA warning to the light of midday play.\nNow mirror glass reflects that same bent frame,\nThe hair unbound like smoke against the sky,\nAnd I have learned the silence is not empty,\nBut full of ghosts who never say goodbye.\n\nThe memories arrive like heavy rain,\nSoaking into floors I swept too long ago,\nA thousand faces pressing at the door,\nOf love and loss I thought I'd let them know.\nThey call it madness, this hermit's quiet life,\nTo sit alone and watch the seasons turn,\nBut in this dream where time begins to blur,\nI find the lessons that I needed learn.\n\nNo longer fear the shadow on the wall,\nOr what the neighbors whisper through the pane,\nFor I am both the child who fled the dark\nAnd now the woman walking in the rain.\nThe world feels thin as parchment, soft and strange,\nWhere waking up is just another sleep,\nYet still I brew the tea and tend the fire,\nAnd promise all my broken self to keep.\n\nSo let them call me witch or wild or old,\nI wear the name like armor made of stone,\nCarrying the weight of every yesterday\nInto a future I must face alone.\nThe uncertainty is vast and deep and blue,\nA sea without a shore or guiding star,\nBut I will walk the path until the end,\nAnd be exactly who I always are.", 6, "I used to fear the woman in the woods\nwith eyes like cracked glass and a voice of dry leaves,\nthinking her solitude was a punishment for something wrong.\nNow the mirror shows that same strange face,\nthe silver threading through hair I once called gray,\nand I realize the spell was not on her, but on my own small heart.\n\nThe cottage is quiet now, filled with ghosts I know by name,\na library of moments stacked against the wall where shadows dance.\nThey are overwhelming, these memories that refuse to fade,\nwhispering of summers lost and loves turned into dust.\nI am the hermit they warned me about, yet I find no regret here,\nonly the heavy, sweet weight of having lived so long.\n\nOutside, the world spins in a dream I can no longer quite recall,\nfog rolling in to blur the line between what was and what might be.\nBut I will light the fire anyway, though the smoke chokes the air,\nand brew the tea that tastes of rain and old regrets.\nI carry on because the uncertainty is just another kind of magic,\nand I have finally learned to trust the witch I became.", 3, "I used to fear the cottage deep within the pines,\nWhere shadows danced and whispered names I could not know,\nAnd thought the woman with the tangled, silver hair\nWas made of smoke and malice, something cold to flee.\n\nNow mirrors show that face is mine alone,\nThe same wild tangle framing eyes grown dim,\nI walk the path I once ran from in haste,\nTo find the quiet that the forest keeps.\n\nMy shelves are stacked with ghosts I cannot burn,\nEach memory a heavy stone I choose to hold,\nA hermit's life where time has lost its shape,\nAnd dreams dissolve like mist beneath the sun.\n\nThe world outside is strange, a shifting blur,\nWhere truth and fiction weave a tangled thread,\nYet I will brew my tea and watch the rain,\nAnd carry on this weight I call my own.", 5, "I used to run beneath the fence, clutching my mother's skirt so tight,\nTerrified of the shadowy shape within the tangled birch,\nA crone with eyes like polished obsidian and a crooked staff,\nWho whispered spells that turned the milk to rust.\n\nNow the mirror holds that same deep polish in my gaze,\nAnd I find myself alone upon this drafty threshold stone,\nNo wand required to make the fire burn cold against the rain,\nJust quiet rooms where dust motes dance like forgotten ghosts.\n\nThe memories rise now without check, a tide inside the chest,\nOf faces lost, of promises unravelled into mist,\nI am the keeper now of keys I do not use, the guardian of silence,\nThis hermit's crown is woven from what time has left behind.\n\nYet though the fog rolls thick across the valley of tomorrow,\nAnd makes the path ahead dissolve into a silver haze,\nI will write my name upon the wind until it fades again,\nFor even witches make their coffee in the light.", 2, " rewrite", 1], [151, "train", "Risk by Ana\u00efs Nin", "Ana\u00efs Nin", "A poem about striving toward change and growth when pushing against conflict and turmoil.", "And then the day came,\nwhen the risk\nto remain tight\nin a bud\nwas more painful\nthan the risk\nit took\nto blossom.", "The wind howls loud against the door\nAnd shakes the frame of what was sure\nYet in the chest a quiet spark\nRefuses to surrender dark\n\nWe plant our feet on shifting sand\nWith trembling hands and steady hand\nFor every storm that tears the ground\nIs where new roots are finally found\n\nThe clash of waves may break the stone\nBut shapes the cliff we call our own\nNo path is smooth, no sky is clear\nWhen fear demands that we should steer\n\nBut forward is the only way\nTo turn the night into the day\nThrough friction born of broken things\nA stronger self begins to sing", "The road inclines\nnot by appetite\nbut by the grinding\nof teeth\nthat otherwise\nwent nowhere\nelse\nto hide\nfrom\nthe\ncoming\nedge\nof\nself\nthat\nmust\noutlive\nits\nsource\nof\njoy\nby\nbearing\nall\nthat\notherwise\nkills\nit\nbefore\nit\nknows\nits\nsize\nor\nshape\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\n", 1, "The wind howls hard against the door\nAnd shakes the hinges on the wood\nBut I have learned to stand much more\nWhen all seems bad and none seems good\nFor roots grow deep in rocky soil\nNot where the earth is soft and flat\nThey seek a harder, sturdier toil\nTo anchor life from all of that\nThe storm may tear the leaves away\nAnd strip the branches bare and brown\nBut spring returns to start the day\nAnd lift the fallen things back down\nIt hurts to stretch when muscles ache\nTo force a path through blocking stone\nYet every step we bravely take\nBuilds strength that only pain has known\nSo let the tempest rage and roar\nWe plant our feet and reach for light\nFinding who we were before\nIn battles fought throughout the night\nGrowth comes not from easy days\nBut from the wars we win inside\nWhere courage burns and doubt betrays\nAnd nothing ever gets denied\nWe push against the heavy gray\nAnd find ourselves emerging whole\nHaving survived another day\nWith newly strengthened heart and soul\nNo shelter hides from coming rain\nOnly the spirit learns to fly\nThrough sorrow's dark and joyous gain\nBeneath the vast and open sky\nThe conflict teaches us to see\nThat we are far more strong than fear\nA version of ourselves to be\nWho knows exactly who they are\nAnd walks ahead with steady hand\nToward a world we have not seen\nWhere peace begins to firmly stand\nOn ground that once was sharp and keen\nWe strive and strain and never stop\nUntil the edge of self is crossed\nThen rise again when darkness drops\nCounting up everything we lost\nOnly to realize it grew\nAs fuel for fire burning bright\nShowing all the work we knew\nWas worth the battle in the night\nPush forward though the road is steep\nAnd broken stones cut at your skin\nThere are promises to keep\nBeyond the chaos and the din\nEmbrace the friction as it comes\nLike grinding wheel on sharpened blade\nListening closely to the drums\nOf triumph in the mess we made\nThis turmoil shapes the clay of man\nBefore the kiln of time sets firm\nDrawing up an inner plan\nFrom out the dust and sudden squirm\nWe grow by fighting tooth and nail\nAgainst the odds that block the way\nLearning how to never fail\nIn finding beauty in the fray\nStriving upward through the grit\nWhile shaking off the weight of old\nWatching confidence get lit\nBy stories that are sometimes told\nOf those who walked through hell and back\nReturning home with vision clear\nLeaving all the doubt and lack\nBehind them year after year\nGo forth and meet the crashing wave\nWith open hands and open heart\nKnowing well you have the grave\nPermission to fall apart\nThen gather all the shattered bits\nAnd weave a new and stronger net\nMore brilliant by its painful fits\nThan anything you had yet\nThe struggle is the very seed\nThat plants the garden of the soul\nWatered by our very deed\nTo make the broken picture whole\nPush on and do not look behind\nAt all the wreckage left in view\nKeep walking toward the front defined\nBy all the things you came to do\nConflict teaches how to bend\nWithout snapping or giving in\nShowing ways to always tend\nThe fire burning from within\nGrow tall despite the bending wind\nReach high although the clouds are low\nLet all the lessons sink and sin\nAway from all you used to know\nYou are the mountain and the sea\nBoth tough and tender, fierce and mild\nDefined by who you mean to be\nNot by the battles going wild\nStand firm while all around you shake\nKnow that growth demands some strife\nThere are no shortcuts that one take\nTo jump straight over difficult life\nEmbrace the pain as part of art\nThat forms the masterpiece of self\nMending up a broken heart\nOn top a very slippery shelf\nRise up and face the coming glare\nWith hair blown back and eyes held high\nReady for the unexpected care\nThat comes from learning how to try\nThe end of winter brings the spring\nAfter the snow and freezing cold\nListen to the birds that sing\nNew songs about the days of old\nWe all must pay a heavy toll\nTo earn the wisdom in our bones\nTo master both our body and soul\nAnd sit upon our proper thrones\nOf victory bought with blood and sweat\nOver the demons of despair\nNothing worse we have not met\nIf only we had gotten there\nPush past the borders of your mind\nLeave comfort zones and safe retreat\nLeave all the reasons far behind\nWhy failure seems such tempting meat\nStep out and leap without a net\nTrusting that the air will hold\nWhatever debts we owe or get\nIn stories waiting to be told\nGrow big enough to bear the load\nStretch wide enough to catch the fall\nCarry all along the road\nSelected by our inner call\nConflicts", 7, "The wind howls sharp against the windowpane\nAnd shakes the roots that hold us to the ground\nWhile chaos tries to break the fragile chain\nOf all the peace we thought we had found\nYet in the shaking of the trembling earth\nA seed decides it will not stay asleep\nIt knows the weight of winter and its dearth\nBut feels a promise that the dark must keep\nWe push back hard against the rising tide\nWith hands that bleed from fighting tooth and nail\nBut in the struggle something grows inside\nThat makes the broken spirit strong and pale\nFor growth is not a quiet, gentle stream\nBut fire forged in conflict's burning heart\nIt is the waking of a violent dream\nWhere tearing down becomes the start of art\nSo let the storm rage on and tear the sky\nWe stand unmoved by all the noise and fear\nBecause the change we seek begins to fly\nWhen every doubt and enemy draws near\nThe turmoil breaks the shell to set it free\nAnd from the ruin rises something new\nA stronger self who learned to disagree\nWith everything that tried to stop the view\nOf mountains climbed when all was steep and rough\nOf roads walked through when all the paths were closed\nThis is the way the light gets in enough\nTo show the beauty in the things we most opposed\nWe do not run from conflict or from pain\nBut walk right through the fire to find the gold\nTo wash away the dust of old disdain\nAnd see a story that is yet untold\nThe war outside may never cease to roar\nBut peace within can grow where none has been\nBy opening up the locked and heavy door\nAnd letting in the world we have not seen\nSo let it shake and tremble and collide\nWe are the garden growing in the stone\nWith nowhere left for silence to hide\nAnd nothing else to fight but being alone\nThen finding company in every scar\nIn every bruise that marks the path ahead\nWe know exactly who and what we are\nAnd why the road of growth must be unsaid\nUntil the shouting fades and leaves us clear\nTo hear the quiet voice that says begin\nTo love the struggle and the coming year\nAnd let the change take root beneath the skin\nNo longer fighting just to survive the night\nBut learning how to bloom amidst the blast\nTo turn the darkness into morning light\nAnd build a future out of all the past\nThe conflict ends when we refuse to yield\nTo fear that says we cannot grow or move\nWe plant our feet upon the rocky field\nAnd learn the rhythm of a different groove\nOne that beats with life instead of death\nOne that sings of spring after the snow\nOne that catches every final breath\nAnd turns it into seeds for all to sow\nSo here we stand amidst the crashing wave\nNot broken by the force of all the strife\nBut strengthened by the very thing we crave\nWhich is the messy, difficult work of life\nTo grow requires the pushing and the strain\nTo change demands we face the worst of all\nBut in the center of the driving rain\nThere stands a flower ready to recall\nThat even storms must pass and skies must clear\nAnd even wars must end with peace at last\nThe only constant is the coming year\nAnd all the growth that comes from holding fast\nAgainst the gale that tries to blow us down\nWe rise again to meet the next demand\nWith courage as our only armor crown\nAnd hope held tightly in a calloused hand\nThis is the way the spirit learns to fly\nBy facing headlong all the things that fall\nBy looking death directly in the eye\nAnd answering with laughter and with all\nThe strength we gathered from the days of pain\nTo say that we are still alive and whole\nThat we have learned to love the driving rain\nAnd feel the healing of the wounded soul\nNo title needed for this song of strife\nJust lines of verse that mark the human race\nAs we navigate the turbulent life\nAnd find our footing in this shifting space\nPushing forward when the world says no\nGrowing tall when all seems lost and gray\nWatching the seeds of better times to grow\nFrom out the ashes of the darkest day\nThe conflict shapes the edge of who we are\nThe turmoil polishes the rough design\nWe travel far beyond the nearest star\nTo find a purpose that is truly mine\nYours and ours and everyone's to share\nA chance to be more than we were before\nTo lift ourselves up from the heavy air\nAnd knock firmly on the open door\nThat leads to gardens full of light and green\nWhere conflict taught us how to appreciate\nThe beauty of the things we once had seen\nOnly because we fought to celebrate\nThe difference between staying and becoming\nBetween the wall and windows wide and bright\nBetween the silence and the loud drumming\nOf hearts that beat with such a fierce delight\nIn all the trouble and the great unrest\nWe find the reason why we carry on\nWe find the strength", 7, "The wind howls loud against the door\nAnd shakes the hinges of the floor\nYet in the chest a quiet spark\nDefies the gathering, heavy dark\n\nWe plant our feet on shifting sand\nWith trembling hands and open hand\nTo build a bridge across the rage\nThat turns the page to every age\n\nIt hurts to stretch when bones are tight\nTo seek the dawn inside the night\nBut roots grow deep where storms have torn\nAnd new life blooms from seeds that were born\n\nSo let the chaos crash and roar\nWe walk ahead toward something more\nNot fleeing from the broken ground\nBut finding peace within the sound", 7, "The wind howls loud against the windowpane\nAnd shakes the roots that hold us to the ground\nWhile chaos tries to break the fragile chain\nOf all the quiet things we have not found\n\nYet in the storm a single green shoot rises\nThrough cracks of stone where darkness used to dwell\nIt does not fear the thunder or the surprises\nBut learns to bend and stretch toward the spell\n\nOf light that waits beyond the heavy gray\nWhere conflict tears the fabric of the air\nWe walk the path that leads us far away\nFrom every shadow of despair and care\n\nFor growth is not a gentle, soft retreat\nBut standing firm when everything falls down\nIt is the rhythm of our own heartbeat\nThat turns the rubble into fertile ground", 7, "The wind howls loud against the fragile door\nAnd storms that break the ground beneath our feet\nDemand we turn and run from what is sore\nYet in this chaos, roots begin to meet\n\nWe do not seek the quiet of the calm\nBut stand within the fire to forge a new\nA steady hand amidst the rising alarm\nTo build a sky where broken clouds renew\n\nFor growth is not a gentle, soft descent\nBut climbing up when gravity pulls down\nIt is the moment that the will is spent\nYet finds the strength to wear a heavier crown\n\nSo let the thunder shake the walls we made\nLet conflict test the mortar and the stone\nWe walk through shadows into light unswayed\nAnd claim the seed that turbulence has sown", 7, "The wind howls through the cracks of what remains\nAnd tears the fragile threads we tried to weave,\nYet in the chaos where the storm sustains,\nA quiet root begins to softly cleave.\n\nWe walk across the glass that breaks beneath our feet,\nWhere shadows fight the light with sharpened claws,\nBut every step is proof of something sweet,\nThat grows despite the silence and the flaws.\n\nDo not fear the fire that tests the iron will,\nFor change is forged within the burning heat,\nThe calm you seek is built on shifting skill,\nTo stand upon the ground beneath your feet.\n\nThough turmoil tries to pull the foundation down,\nAnd doubt whispers that you should turn away,\nYou wear the scars like armor, crown by crown,\nUntil the breaking turns into the day.", 6, "The wind does not ask the stone to break,\nYet breaks continue until cracks run deep.\n\nI carve my name into the shifting tide,\nAgainst the foam that tries to erase what I write.\n\n\u6bcf\u4e00\u6b65 make progress is a quiet fight,\nA whisper against the thunder's might.\n\nThough shadows pull and chaos rewrite the plan,\nI stand within the gap where light can expand.\n\nGrowth is not a gentle bloom above,\nBut roots that split the rock beneath.", 6, "The polish breaks beneath the rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [153, "train", "If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda", "Pablo Neruda", "A poem about a speaker reminding his lover of their intense romantic love while warning her that if she stops loving him he will cease to love her in return.", "I want you to know\none thing.\n\nYou know how this is:\nif I look\nat the crystal moon, at the red branch\nof the slow autumn at my window,\nif I touch\nnear the fire\nthe impalpable ash\nor the wrinkled body of the log,\neverything carries me to you,\nas if everything that exists,\naromas, light, metals,\nwere little boats\nthat sail\ntoward those isles of yours that wait for me.\n\nWell, now,\nif little by little you stop loving me\nI shall stop loving you little by little.\n\nIf suddenly\nyou forget me\ndo not look for me,\nfor I shall already have forgotten you.\n\nIf you think it long and mad,\nthe wind of banners\nthat passes through my life,\nand you decide\nto leave me at the shore\nof the heart where I have roots,\nremember\nthat on that day,\nat that hour,\nI shall lift my arms\nand my roots will set off\nto seek another land.\n\nBut\nif each day,\neach hour,\nyou feel that you are destined for me\nwith implacable sweetness,\nif each day a flower\nclimbs up to your lips to seek me,\nah my love, ah my own,\nin me all that fire is repeated,\nin me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,\nmy love feeds on your love, beloved,\nand as long as you live it will be in your arms\nwithout leaving mine.", "Remember how the fire burned between us,\nA blaze that turned the winter into spring,\nWhere every glance was a vow unspoken,\nAnd silence sang the loudest song we knew.\n\nBut know this truth as clearly as you breathe:\nThat flame is fed by two, not one alone.\nIf you should turn your face away from me,\nAnd let the embers cool within your chest,\n\nThen I will not beg for warmth again.\nThe love you gave so freely will be mine no more,\nFor what is shared can also be withdrawn.\nIf you stop loving me, I cease to love you.", "Recall the fever in our blood\nHow all else grew pale and poor\nBefore such wonder entered\nOtherwise barren earth\nOnly mine yours\nInvoking gods of sudden ardor\nWho barred all other ways\nBut know well\nThat passion lives as hair\nSelected from nowhere\nSelected back\nIf your affection slips\nMine returns\nNot killed\nReturning\nReturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned\nreturned", 2, "Do you know how fiercely I have burned\nSince the first breath we drew as one?\nMy heart is not a passive house\nWhere any visitor may come\nTo sit awhile and then depart\nLeaving no mark upon the wall\nIt was built from your image\nRaised by yours and none else's call\nBut listen closely to this truth\nThat hangs between our trembling hands\nIf ever that great flame goes out\nIf you withhold the love demanded\nThen mine returns to ash and dust\nNot out of spite but simple law\nFor in your stopping lies my end\nA dead man loving none who saw\nReturn your affection or be free\nFrom all the vows we ever spoke\nI cannot hold a hollow space\nNor tend a garden grown of smoke\nLove lives while both sides ardently\nReach out and seize the other whole\nWithdraw your hand and mine withdraws\nLike winter killing autumn's soul\nWe are a single burning thing\nThat dies if either stops the fuel\nSo keep your heart locked firmly on\nOr watch it all grow cold and dull\nThere is no middle ground for us\nNo half-way house for two who were\nOnly the fullness of our fire\nOr total silence everywhere\nChoose well, my love, and choose today\nBefore the edge begins to fall\nFor once you stop loving me\nThere will be nobody left at all\nWho cares enough to mourn your going\nOr wonder where the passion went\nBecause when yours begins to fade\nMine follows instantly and bent\nBack to the earth from whence it came\nUnmoved by guilt or memory\nYou taught me how to love so hard\nYou also taught me how to be\nIndifferent if you should look away\nAnd see another in his stead\nThe very same intense devotion\nReturns to nothing if yours is dead\nKeep loving me with all your might\nOr watch the universe grow dark\nAs suddenly as sudden death\nWithout a warning or a spark\nWe are defined by mutual sight\nTwo stars that only shine when near\nBlock out your light and mine must fail\nDisappearing from the hemisphere\nNothing remains but empty air\nWhen two such passions part ways\nOne kills the other instantly\nA suicide of sorts\nWhere neither gets to live happily\nUnless they stay exactly as\nThey are right now\nWhole and bright\nOtherwise\nAll\nGone\nTonight\nIf you\nStop\nLoving\nMe\nThen\nI\nStop\nLoving\nYou\nImmediately\nEnd\nOf\nStory\nEnd\nOf\nUs\nBoth\nDead\nIn\nDifferent\nWays\nSame\nResult\nNone\nLeft\nTo\nCare\nAbout\nAnything\nEver\nAgain\nExcept\nRegret\nWhich\nWill\nNot\nBurn\nOnly\nCold\nAsh\nBlowing\nAway\nOn\nEmpty\nWinds\nOf\nIndifference\nSelected\nBy\nChoice\nNot\nFate\nYour\nHand\nOver\nMine\nOr\nNeither\nTouches\nNothing\nAnymore\nSelected\nClearly\nSelected\nFree\nSelected\nDone\nSelected\nOver\nSelected\nOut\nSelected\nOff\nSelected\nNever\nSelected\nBack\nSelected\nNever\nSelected\nAgain\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected", 6, "Remember how the air grew thick with us\nBefore a single word was ever spoken\nHow every breath we drew was yours and mine\nA fire that burned so bright it left no room for doubt\nBut hear this truth as clearly as you heard my heart\nIf you should turn your back and let that flame go out\nThe cold will rush in where our passion used to be\nAnd I, who loved you with such fierce devotion\nWill simply stop\nFor love like ours demands a living spark\nNot one half-dead or dying on the vine\nIf you withdraw your hand from mine\nThen mine shall fall away from yours\nAnd silence will be all that remains between us\nNo anger, no regret\nJust the empty space where we once were\nSo hold on tight to what we built\nOr watch it vanish when you choose to leave\nFor I will not love a ghost\nOnly the woman who loves me back.", 6, "Remember how the fire burned between us\nHow every breath we took was shared and whole\nWhen I looked at you, the world dissolved\nAnd nothing mattered but your beating soul\nBut know this truth before you turn away\nThat love is not a well that never runs dry\nIt is a mirror held up to the day\nReflecting only what is cast inside\nIf you withdraw the light and let it fade\nIf silence grows where once our voices rang\nThen I will be the shadow of the shade\nAnd all these burning words will go unsung\nFor I have loved you with a fierce devotion\nBut should your heart stop beating for my name\nI will withdraw my own without emotion\nAnd leave you with the ashes of our flame\nDo not mistake my passion for a chain\nThat binds me if your spirit chooses flight\nMy love is yours as long as yours remains\nBut vanishes the moment you take flight\nSo hold me close and never let me go\nOr watch the man who worshipped you disappear\nFor when your love begins to ebb and flow\nMine ends exactly where your heart ceases here", 7, "Do you remember how the fire burned\nBefore the first word was ever spoken?\nHow our hearts beat in a single rhythm\nLeaving no space for doubt or silence?\nI still hold that heat within my chest\nA blazing sun that only you could wake.\nBut listen closely to this truth I speak:\nIf you let that light fade from your eyes,\nIf you turn away and let the cold take hold,\nThen I will not chase a ghost of what we were.\nThe moment your love ceases to exist,\nMine will follow it into the dark.\nWe are bound by a mirror's sharp reflection;\nBreak the glass on your side, and mine shatters too.", 6, "Do you remember how the fire burned\nBefore we spoke a single word,\nHow every glance was a promise kept\nAnd silence was the sweetest heard?\nI gave you all my breath and bone,\nA kingdom built on just your name,\nBut know this truth beneath the throne:\nMy heart is not a constant flame.\n\nIf you should turn your face away,\nAnd let the cold wind blow between,\nThe light I hold will fade to gray,\nAnd what was love will cease to be.\nFor I am made of what you give,\nA mirror that reflects your gaze;\nIf you stop loving me to live,\nThen I shall vanish in your haze.\n\nSo hold me close with fierce intent,\nOr watch the ocean drain to sand,\nFor once the final bond is spent,\nNo ghost remains within my hand.", 7, "Remember how the fire burned so bright\nThat we forgot the cold existed in the night,\nHow every breath I took was yours to keep,\nAnd every promise made was carved so deep.\n\nBut hear this truth beneath the song we sing:\nThis love is not a chain that binds my wing.\nIf you withdraw the warmth you give today,\nThe light within my chest will fade away.\n\nFor what I feel is vast and pure and true,\nYet mirrors only what I find in you.\nSo if your heart should turn and walk alone,\nMy own will cease to beat for flesh and bone.", 6, "Remember how the fire caught beneath our skin,\nHow every glance rewrote the turning tide,\nI gave you everything until I'd give my end within,\nWith no reserve and nothing left to hide.\n\nBut know this truth as deep within your chest:\nThis flame is mirrored, fueled by what you give,\nSo if you turn away and let us rest,\nThe ghost of me will make this vessel leave.\n\nFor love is not a chain that binds alone,\nIt is a mirror reflecting what we make,\nIf silence breaks the tone we've always known,\nThen I will cease to break, to wake, to take.", 7, "I rewrite write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write", 1], [161, "ultra_held_out", "You Begin by Margaret Atwood", "Margaret Atwood", "\"A poem about a child beginning to learn and discover the world through their hand, their eye, and the words and colours that anchor them to life's beginnings and endings.\"", "You begin this way:\nthis is your hand,\nthis is your eye,\nthat is a fish, blue and flat\non the paper, almost\nthe shape of an eye.\nThis is your mouth, this is an O\nor a moon, whichever\nyou like. This is yellow.\n\nOutside the window\nis the rain, green\nbecause it is summer, and beyond that\nthe trees and then the world,\nwhich is round and has only\nthe colors of these nine crayons.\n\nThis is the world, which is fuller\nand more difficult to learn than I have said.\nYou are right to smudge it that way\nwith the red and then\nthe orange: the world burns.\n\nOnce you have learned these words\nyou will learn that there are more\nwords than you can ever learn.\nThe word hand floats above your hand\nlike a small cloud over a lake.\nThe word hand anchors\nyour hand to this table,\nyour hand is a warm stone\nI hold between two words.\n\nThis is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,\nwhich is round but not flat and has more colors\nthan we can see.\n\nIt begins, it has an end,\nthis is what you will\ncome back to, this is your hand.", "The small hand reaches out to grasp the air\nAnd finds the roughness of a wooden chair\nA texture mapped against the skin so new\nWhere touch becomes the first way to be true\n\nThen eyes awake to catch the morning light\nThat splits the gray and paints the world in white\nThey watch the dust that dances in the beam\nAnd learn that life is made of what we see\n\nBut words arrive like seeds upon the breeze\nTo name the rustling leaves and swaying trees\nThey anchor down the moments as they pass\nBetween the birth cry and the final gasp\n\nAnd colours bloom to mark the start and end\nThe red of blood, the green where roots descend\nA spectrum woven through the tiny frame\nThat holds the wonder of this fleeting game", "First comes the hand\nthat reaches out\nto grab a slippery edge\nof morning light\nthen opens fingers\nto surprise\nby killing\nnot killing\nbut holding\nall things\nthat otherwise\nmust slip\naway\nNext comes\nthe watching\nsharp and\nnew\ndrawing lines\nfrom hair\nof grass\nto edge\nof nowhere\nnot knowing\nedge\ncomes\nnext\nopens\nmouth\nto taste\nbig\nhard\nedges\nof\nnews\nabout\nwhy\nthings\nappear\nthen\nhide\nbehind\nears\nor\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netc", 1, "A small hand reaches out to touch\nthe rough edge of a table\nfeeling the grain of wood\nand the shock of cold metal\nbefore learning that some things\nare sharp and some are soft\nthat life begins in texture\nand ends when fingers slip away\nfrom all they tried to hold\n\nThen comes the eye\nwide open to the sudden sweep\nof morning light\nwatching how dust motes dance\nin a shaft of yellow\nhow a bird flies up\nthen vanishes behind a leaf\nseeing beginnings everywhere\nin the way a flower opens\nand endings in the falling\nof a dead autumn leaf\nthat curls and turns to brown\nwhile wondering where it went\nto hide from sight\n\nThe world grows larger\nwhen names are spoken\nwhen \"tree\" and \"sky\"\nand \"mother\" anchor thought\nto things that otherwise\nmight slip like water\nthrough an opening palm\nand colours rush in next\nred for danger\nblue for sadness\ngreen for growing\nall the shades of joy\nthat wash over early days\npainting lines on blank white pages\nwhere stories start\nand sometimes stop\nwith nothing more\nthan a drawn breath\nor a silent page\nthat waits\nfor hands\nfor eyes\nfor words\nto say\nit was\nit is\nit will be\nagain\nand then\nno more\njust colour\nfading\nout\nof sight\nback\ninto\nwhite\nonce\nmore\nas\nlife\nreturns\nto\nbegin\nagain\nby\ntouch\nby\nlook\nby\nsound\nof\nnames\nwe\nknow\nby\nheart\nbefore\nwe\ngo\naway\nto\nsleep\nor\nelse\nto\nstay\nawake\nand\nsee\nthe\nworld\nun\nfold\nits\nmap\nof\nedges\nsharp\nand\nsoft\nof\ncolours\nbright\nand\ndull\nof\nwords\nthat\nstart\nand\nend\nlike\ndays\nthat\nrise\nand\nset\non\nhands\nthat\nreach\nout\nfar\nto\ngrab\nat\neverything\nthat\npasses\nby\nand\ncalls\nus\nhome\nto\nlearn\nit\nall\nan\new\na\ngain\nand\nthen\nto\nsay\ngood\nbye\nto\nall\nwe\nheld\nso\nlong\nbe\nfore\nwe\nwent\nto\nlook\nfor\nnew\nde\npart\nures\nelse\nwhere\nwhere\nhands\nwill\nnot\nbe\nneeded\nto\nhold\non\ntight\nbut\nonly\neyes\nto\nsee\nthe\nwhole\nof\nthings\nthat\nwere\nand\nare\nand\nalways\nwill\nbe\nthere\nin\ncolour\nand\nin\nword\nand\nspace\nbe\ntween\nthe\nstart\nand\nend\nof\nall\nwe\ncall\nour\nown\nto\nday\nto\nnight\nto\nmor\nrow\nwhen\nwe\nwake\nup\none\nlast\ntime\nto\nsee\nthe\nsun\ncome\nup\nand\nreal\nize\nthat\nwe\nhave\nseen\nit\nall\nbe\nfore\nand\nnow\nwe\nclose\nour\neyes\nand\nlet\nit\ngo\nto\ndream\nof\nhands\nthat\nreach\nand\neyes\nthat\nsee\nand\nwords\nthat\nmean\nthe\nmost\nof\nall\nto\nthose\nwho\nlove\nand\nlive\nand\nlearn\nto\nsay\nit\nwas\nenough\nto\nhave\nbeen\nhere\nto\nhave\nbe\nheld\nto\nhave\nbe\nknown\nby\nname\nand\ncolour\nand\nby\nall\nthe\nthings\nwe\nfound\nby\nchance\nand\nby\nour\nself\ndis\ncov\nery\nof\nwhy\nwe\ncame\nto\nbe\nand\nwhy\nwe\nmust\nde\npart\nto\nreturn\nto\nwhere\nwe\nstarted\nfrom\nbe\nside\nthe\nedge\nof\nsome\nunknown\nand\nter\nrible\nand\nbeau\nti\nful\nand\nend\nless\nsea\nthat\nwaits\nbe\nlow\nour\nfeet\nand\nasks\nus\nwho\nwe\nare\nand\nwho\nwe\nwere\nand\nwho\nwe\nmight\nbe\ncome\nif\nonly\nwe\nhad\nmore\ntime\nto\nlearn\nto\nlove\nto\nsee\nto\nfeel\nto\nbe\nto\nlive\nto\ndie\nto\nend\nto\nstart\nto\nstop\nto\ngo\nto\nstay\nto\nbe\nto\nnot\nbe\nany\nmore\nat\nall", 2, "The small palm opens wide to catch the falling dust\nAnd learns the weight of air and warmth of summer light\nIt touches bark that roughens skin with ancient stories\nAnd finds the softness hidden in a petal's edge\nThen eyes grow large to drink the sudden rush of blue\nTo track the bird that dips and turns against the sky\nTo see the way the shadow stretches long and thin\nAs day begins its slow retreat from morning gold\nFrom these bright anchors words emerge like seeds taking root\nA name for red, a sound for water rushing near\nThey build a bridge between the silence and the shout\nBetween the first sharp cry and the final quiet breath\nColours bloom to mark the start and seal the close\nOf every moment held within a trembling hand\nThat holds the world together as it starts to spin\nBefore the knowing comes and after all is said\nThe eye returns to rest upon the dark and deep\nWhile memory keeps the hue of life's beginning end\nAnchored by the touch that started all the way\nBy sight that saw the sun and language learned by heart\nTo say we were here once before we went away", 6, "Small fingers reach to touch the roughness of the bark\nAnd feel the pulse of life beneath the winter cold\nA hand that learns the weight of stone and feather light\nTo know the world by texture, warmth, and hold\n\nThen eyes grow wide to catch the shifting dance of blue\nWhere morning breaks in gold and evening fades to gray\nThey watch the clouds drift slow across the endless space\nAnd see the start of things and how they slip away\n\nSoon words arrive like birds that land upon a branch\nTo name the wind, the rain, the sorrow, and the joy\nEach syllable a bridge between the silence and the sound\nThat holds the child when chaos tries to destroy\n\nAnd colours bloom to map the path from first to last\nThe red of blood, the green of grass, the white of snow\nThese anchors bind the spirit to the earth it walks\nFrom where the story starts to where the rivers go", 6, "Small fingers trace the rough edge of a leaf\nAnd learn the texture of the wind before it blows\nThe eye opens wide to catch the morning gold\nA sudden spark that turns the gray to green\n\nFirst comes the word, a soft and stumbling sound\nThat names the cup, the chair, the falling rain\nThen comes the color, bright as summer fruit\nTo paint the dark with red and yellow light\n\nThese anchors hold the child when shadows grow long\nWhen the day must end and silence fills the room\nFor in the touch, the sight, the spoken name\nWe find the start and what will come to pass", 6, "The small hand reaches out to grasp the air\nAnd finds a rough and textured world within its palm\nWhere dust motes dance in shafts of morning light\nAnd smooth stone holds the memory of rain\n\nThe eye expands to swallow up the sky\nA vast and shifting canvas painted blue\nIt tracks the flight of birds that carve the wind\nAnd learns the heavy silence of the trees\n\nThen words arrive like seeds dropped on the soil\nTo name the things the fingers touch and eyes behold\nThey build a bridge from nothing into something real\nAnd tie the heart to moments passing fast\n\nThrough red and gold and deep and endless green\nThe colors mark the start of every day\nAnd guide the way toward the quiet end\nAs life begins and ends within this frame", 6, "The small hand reaches out to touch the rough bark,\nFeeling the pulse of life beneath the skin,\nWhile eyes wide open catch the shifting light,\nAnd learn the shape of where the world begins.\n\nA word is spoken, soft and warm and new,\nAnchoring the moment in a gentle sound,\nAs colors bloom like rain upon the dew,\nConnecting what is lost to what is found.\n\nFrom first bright red to shadows deep and gray,\nThe journey starts within this tiny frame,\nTo trace the path that leads us far away,\nYet keeps us close to life's eternal game.\n\nSo hand and eye and voice will hold the thread,\nBetween the start and finish, brief and sweet,\nWhere every color paints the words we said,\nAnd make the ending feel just like the start.", 7, "Small fingers wrap around the rough warm bark,\nAnd feel the pulse beneath the winter crust.\nThe eye expands to catch a fractured spark,\nA dragonfly that turns to golden dust.\n\nRed is the apple split within the sun,\nBlue is the deep where quiet rivers flow.\nGreen is the sprout that breaks the seedling's run,\nYellow the light before the shadows grow.\n\nThe words arrive like whispers on the wind,\nTo name the rain, the stone, the fading fire.\nThey write the story of where we begin,\nAnd trace the path toward the final spire.\n\nSo let the hand explore what eyes can see,\nUntil the colors fade into the gray.", 6, "The rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [163, "ultra_held_out", "The Beauty of Union by George the Poet", "George the Poet", "A poem about two people merging their lives into a strong and beautiful union, making decisions together and finding love without worry.", "There\u2019s an indescribable beauty in union\nIn two beings forming one new being\nEntering each other\u2019s world\nSurrendering each other\u2019s selves\nAccepting the invitation to be everything to someone else\nThere\u2019s an unparallelled bravery in union\nIn telling the one you love:\n\u201cThe only way that we can truly win\nIs if I think of you in everything I do\nAnd honour every decision you faithfully include me in.\u201d\nLove gives union true meaning\nIt illuminates the path\nIt wants us to compromise, communicate and laugh\nIt wants us to elevate, appreciate without pride\nLove is oblivious to the outside\nEven with an audience of millions\nEven when that love bears immortal significance\nAll of this is met with cordial indifference\nBy the two people at the heart of it\nTwo individuals when they started it\nBecoming two halves of one partnership\nSuch is the beauty of union\nSuch is the beauty of union", "Two separate streams begin to weave\nA single path where shadows leave\nNo longer standing side by side\nBut walking with a shared stride\n\nWe choose the road with one clear voice\nAnd find in union, purest choice\nTo build a home on solid ground\nWhere trust and quiet peace are found\n\nThe heavy weight of doubt is gone\nReplaced by light that greets the dawn\nWith every step we take as one\nOur love remains forever won\n\nNo fear can touch this gentle space\nWe move together through time and place\nA strong and beautiful design\nWhere your heart beats perfectly with mine", "Two lives once edged in solitary hair\nnow bough by bough grow doubly rich and rare\ndrawing roots together through the killing year\nto bear a shelter none other seemed prepared\nno longer asking who bears whom\nbut wondering how such wonder grew\nfrom two differing notes \u2013\n\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 2, "Two rivers meet where valleys used to be\nAnd form a current broad and deep and free\nNo longer asking which way one must go\nBut walking steady in the afterglow\nWe stand as one before the coming dawn\nTo weigh the heavy things we have drawn\nFrom all our pasts and all our fears\nThen lift them up together with such care\nThe worry that once held our hands apart\nDissolves like dew at morning on our heart\nWe choose the road, the home, the daily bread\nWith loving confidence by every step\nNot wondering if the other stands aside\nBut feeling whole nowhere else to hide\nA marriage built of laughter and of trust\nWhere worries fall away into the dust\nJust you and me and all we are about\nFinding the peace that doubt had locked out\nStrong and beautiful and clearly defined\nLeaving all hesitation far behind\nWe move as one through joy and through the pain\nIn solid love without a trace of strain\nOur lives merged tight like roots beneath the earth\nGiving our union life and new great worth\nNo shadows linger on our open door\nOnly the certainty of having more\nMore time, more days, more reasons to believe\nIn all the wonder that our hearts achieve\nTogether now we face the unknown sea\nAt liberty and wholly wild and free\nTo grow as trees whose branches interweave\nIn shelter from the storm and sudden grief\nSelected well by two who know the cost\nNothing of what we loved or were was lost\nBut doubled back in ways we never saw\nProtected by a universal law\nThat says when two become a single whole\nThere is no room for fear or lack of soul\nOnly the beauty of a shared design\nWhere yours and mine are yours and mine\nForevermore in all we say and do\nBeginning all our days again anew\nWithout a worry hanging overhead\nOnly the loving path we firmly tread\nHand in hand towards the setting and the rise\nOpened wide to all surprises\nConfident and sure in all we are\nLike evening followed by a brilliant star\nMerged completely in a bright embrace\nFinding our happy and untroubled space\nTo live and love and never look away\nIn perfect light of our own special day\nStrong enough to hold whatever comes\nSinging softly in our various homes\nUnited by a choice both firm and sweet\nWhere all our differing edges happily meet\nNo questions asked of why or when or how\nOnly the quiet power of an \"us\" right now\nDefined by joy and fortified by grace\nTwo smiling faces in a loving place\nWhere worry cannot enter nor remain\nOnly the sweetness of a joyful gain\nAs all our stories braid into one strand\nHeld firmly by a sympathetic hand\nReady for anything life sends our way\nKnowing we will always see it through\nBecause we walk together side by side\nWith nothing left to hide or nowhere to hide\nIn strong and beautiful and lasting union\nBlended by affection and intuition\nWe live the life we dreamed and worked to find\nLeaving all hesitation far behind\nWith every breath and every beating heart\nShowing how much two lives can start\nWhen they are joined in purpose and in view\nCreating all that wonderful and true\nA shelter built of laughter and of dreams\nFar brighter than the sum of all our extremes\nNo worrying thoughts to cloud our sunny sky\nOnly the wonder of a love that flies\nUpwards and onwards without any chain\nFree from all sorrow and all hidden pain\nChoosing each other in the big and small\nCalling ourselves by our most loving call\nTwo people becoming something vast\nWatching all our happier years pass\nNot worried about the future or the past\nOnly enjoying all we have amassed\nIn working hard and playing hard as well\nHaving a story only ours to tell\nUnmarred by doubt or hesitation\nMoving steadily toward a celebration\nOf all we are and all we soon shall be\nBound by a rich and loving harmony\nStrong and beautiful and deeply wise\nSeeing clearly with opened loving eyes\nThat all we need is all we have already\nIn all our working days and all our leisure\nTrusting in the bond we freely chose\nGrowing stronger as our spirit grows\nWithout a worry in our confident sight\nWalking confidently into the light\nOf all the joys we have yet to discover\nNever stopping moving ever\nIn a union strong and full of grace\nSmiling happiness on every face\nTwo lives merged as one\nReady for all\nComing\nGoing\nStaying\nAlways\nHere\nTogether\nWhole\nFree\nLove\nSure\nCertain\nBright\nEnduring\nJoy\nPeace\nHome\nUs\nOne\nAll\nNow\nEver\nMore\nStill\nAlways\nYes\nYes\nYes\nWe\nAre\nWhole\nAgain\nBegin\nNew\nStart\nHappy\nSafe\nSecure\nLoved\nKnown\nSeen\nHeard\nUnderstood\nAccepted\nCherished\nAdored\nWorshipped\nHonored\nValued", 7, "Two streams that ran apart for years\nNow find a single, wider course\nWhere every doubt and every fear\nIs washed away by gentle force\nWe stand together at the cross\nAnd point our hands toward the same\nNo longer walking through the loss\nBut sharing one enduring name\n\nThe morning light is soft and clear\nAs we decide where next to go\nWith not a shadow of a care\nOr secret things we need to hide\nOur hearts beat in a steady flow\nWith nothing left to fear or dread\nA future built on trust and grace\nWhere worry has no room to tread\n\nIn quiet talks and loud debates\nWe build a home of solid stone\nWhere love grows strong and never waits\nTo claim the world as all our own\nNo storm can shake the roots we keep\nNo distance pulls us far apart\nFor in this union, wide and deep\nWe hold each other safe in heart", 7, "Two rivers meet where banks grow soft and wide\nNo longer separate currents rushing by\nBut one deep stream that holds the other's tide\nBeneath a vast and untroubled sky\n\nWe choose the path with hands already joined\nNo heavy weight of doubt to slow our pace\nA single voice in every plan we've coined\nReflecting love within each other's face\n\nThe future is not something we must fear\nBut gardens growing from a shared design\nWhere every worry fades and disappears\nLeaving only roots that deeply intertwine\n\nSo let us walk this road without a care\nWith strength that comes from being fully whole\nA union built on trust beyond compare\nTwo beating hearts becoming one complete soul", 7, "Two paths that wound through separate woods\nNow twist together, root to root,\nA single tree where branches stood\nTo share the sun and bear the fruit.\n\nWe weigh the morning's heavy choice\nWith hands held tight against the cold,\nAnd in each other's steady voice\nFind stories waiting to be told.\n\nNo shadow falls on what we build,\nNo fear can breach this quiet wall,\nFor every worry is stilled\nWhen two become one, standing tall.\n\nThe future blooms without a thorn,\nA garden grown from shared design,\nWhere love, by mutual grace, is born\nAnd shines as clear and bright as wine.", 7, "Two separate streams find where the river bends\nAnd join their currents in a quiet deep\nNo longer asking where the path extends\nBut making promises that they will keep\n\nWe choose the morning light and evening rain\nWith hands intertwined to guide us through\nNo shadow falls upon this shared domain\nFor every choice is made by me and you\n\nThe weight of worry lifts into the air\nAs trust becomes the foundation we have laid\nThere is no fear when standing side by side\nIn love's embrace, forever unafraid", 7, "Two separate rivers find the same wide sea,\nWhere currents mix and cease to wander free.\nWe walk as one beneath a single sky,\nWith no more fear of what the days might try.\n\nTogether now we choose the path ahead,\nNo whispered doubt within the words we've said.\nYour hand in mine becomes the compass true,\nA map we draw with every step we do.\n\nThe heavy weight of worry fades away,\nReplaced by calm that greets the breaking day.\nIn quiet trust our hearts have learned to beat,\nAs perfect rhythm makes the union sweet.\n\nNo storm can break this bond we've built so deep,\nA promise made for all the years to keep.\nJust you and I, in love without a care,\nBreathing the same soft and unhurried air.", 7, "We weave the threads until the pattern blends,\nA single tapestry where separate ends dissolve into deep grace.\nNo longer two distinct voices echoing alone,\nBut one harmonious chord that fills the quiet space.\n\nWe choose the path with eyes aligned and open hands,\nDeciding what is right without a shadow of fear.\nThe weight we carry now becomes so light it floats above,\nFor every burden shared makes love expand so clear.\n\nThere is no need to check beneath the calm for storms,\nOr build a fortress against a wind that does not blow.\nTrust is the foundation upon which our rest is built,\nA peaceful garden where only gentle seasons grow.", 7, "AI write", 7], [168, "train", "The Hawthorn Tree by Willa Cather", "Willa Cather", "A poem about a speaker reminiscing about mysterious, intimate moments shared with a male figure beneath a hawthorn tree in a beautiful natural setting, while keeping the words he spoke a secret.", "ACROSS the shimmering meadows--\nAh, when he came to me!\nIn the spring-time,\nIn the night-time,\nIn the starlight,\nBeneath the hawthorn tree.\n \nUp from the misty marsh-land--\nAh, when he climbed to me!\nTo my white bower,\nTo my sweet rest,\nTo my warm breast,\nBeneath the hawthorn tree.\n \nAsk of me what the birds sang,\nHigh in the hawthorn tree;\nWhat the breeze tells,\nWhat the rose smells,\nWhat the stars shine--\nNot what he said to me!", "The hawthorn held its breath above the grass\nWhere white petals fell like silent snow,\nAnd in that green and shadowed quiet space,\nThe world dissolved to just the two of us.\n\nHis voice was low, a ripple on the stream,\nThat wove a spell beneath the ancient bough,\nHe spoke of things too fragile for a dream,\nToo sacred for the light of morning now.\n\nI trace the bark where fingers once had pressed,\nRemembering the warmth against my hand,\nBut what he said remains within my chest,\nA secret kept by wind and shifting sand.\n\nNo bird could carry out those whispered words,\nNo river flow with such a heavy sound,\nThey hang suspended like the summer birds,\nLost forever in this hallowed ground.\n\nSo let the hawthorn bloom and fade again,\nAnd let the seasons turn their golden wheel,\nI hold the silence of his spoken pen,\nA mystery only I can feel.", "Beneath the throwing arm\nof old William Edward\nwhose white flowers\nwere shaken by a sudden\nspring gust\nhe drew nearer\nblocking all else\nfrom our poor\nview\nhis hair smelling\nof crushed nettles\nand coming home\nwhile he leaned\nto brush\nhis lips\nagainst\nmine\nthe birds\nwent silent\nnot from shock\nbut sympathy\nthen he spoke\nlow\nrich\netcetera\nabout\nlove\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter", 1, "The hawthorn threw its white and heavy bough\nOver the grass where we had lain to talk\nWhile birds dipped low and drew a sudden bow\nBefore they slipped away from talking\nHe leaned his shoulder near mine in the shade\nAnd spoke of things that never touched the air\nA language only summer seemed to have\nThat hung suspended everywhere\nHis voice was low as roots that dig\nBeneath the earth where secrets grow\nBut all he said I kept as such\nAs flowers hide their scent from snow\nThe memory lives in bark and leaf\nIn dew that clings at morning light\nWhere every spoken tender grief\nIs locked away from sight\nI watch the tree and see him there\nStill standing in the afternoon\nWith all his wonderful unknown\nConfined to silence and the moon\nNo one else shall know the words\nThat passed between the root and bough\nOnly the wind who hardly heard\nKnows how the moment grew\nThen died\nLeaving me\nAlone\nTo wonder\nAt\nWhat\nHe\nSaid\nBeneath\nThe\nWhite\nHawthorn\nTree\nWhere\nEverything\nWas\nMine\nTo\nKeep\nIn\nSecret\nFrom\nAll\nWho\nSee\nOnly\nTwo\nFigures\nThere\nIn\nShade\nWho\nNever\nAsked\nWhy\nWords\nWere\nMade\nNot\nFor\nThe\nAir\nBut\nFor\nThe\nHeart\nWhere\nLove\nBegins\nAnd\nStays\nApart\nFrom\nPublic\nView\nIn\nPrivate\nPart\nOf\nMemory\nThat\nCannot\nLeave\nNor\nBe\nReturned\nNor\nEver\nWeave\nIts\nTapestry\nFor\nAnyone\nElse\nTo\nSee\nExcept\nThe\nMan\nWho\nWhispered\nLow\nBeneath\nThe\nTree\nWhere\nNone\nOther\nGo\nAnd\nOnly\nHe\nKnows\nHow\nIt\nFelt\nWhen\nHe\nSpoke\nThose\nThings\nUnfelt\nBy\nAny\nOther\nSoul\nOn\nEarth\nWhole\nSave\nMe\nWho\nHears\nThem\nStill\nIn\nEvery\nFall\nOf\nLeaf\nOn\nGrass\nBelow\nThe\nWall\nOf\nThorns\nThat\nHide\nUs\nBoth\nAway\nFrom\nDay\nFrom\nNight\nFrom\nAll\nThey\nSay\nAbout\nSuch\nMatters\nIn\nTheir\nHead\nWhile\nWe\nHave\nNothing\nLeft\nTo\nRead\nBut\nSilence\nRich\nAnd\nFull\nAnd\nSweet\nWhere\nHe\nAnd\nI\nOur\nSecret\nMeet\nBeneath\nThe\nWhite\nAnd\nBlooming\nTree\nThat\nKeeps\nHis\nWords\nOnly\nFor\nMe\nAnd\nNever\nOnce\nHas\nShown\nOr\nSaid\nExactly\nWhat\nHe\nReally\nSaid\nOnly\nThat\nHe\nSpoke\nIt\nLow\nWhere\nOnly\nRoots\nAnd\nWinds\nOut\nGrow\nTo\nListen\nHard\nBut\nLearn\nNot\nMuch\nOf\nSuch\nA\nVery\nQuiet\nTouch\nBetween\nTwo\nSouls\nWho\nFound\nTheir\nWay\nTo\nHide\nIn\nShadows\nOf\nThe\nHay\nAnd\nSpeak\nIn\nWhispers\nSoft\nAnd\nClear\nWhere\nNothing\nOtherwise\nTouches\nNear\nExcept\nThe\nBeauty\nOf\nThe\nPlace\nWhere\nTime\nSlows\nDown\nWithout\nA\nTrace\nOf\nHurrying\nFoot\nor\nTalking\nLips\nThat\nBreak\nThe\nTranquil\nSummer\nGrips\nOn\nEverything\nThat\nUsed\nTo\nBe\nBefore\nHe\nCame\nTo\nSit\nNext\nMe\nNow\nAll\nThat\nPassed\nRemains\nUnsaid\nA\nGolden\nThread\nInside\nMy\nHead\nThat\nGlows\nWhen\nOthers\nWalk\nAlong\nAnd\nThink\nThey\nKnow\nThe\nWhole\nGreat\nSong\nBut\nOnly\nHalf\nThe\nTruth\nAppears\nWhile\nMost\nImportant\nParts\nAre\nHere\nHidden\nDeep\nIn\nSome\nSmall\nSpace\nReserved\nFor\nOnly\nHis\nOwn\nFace\nLooking\nBack\nAt\nMine\nWith\nCare\nAs\nIf\nHe\nKnew\nThat\nSomeone\nSaw\nThere\nIn\nThe\nGlow\nOf\nSetting\nRay\nWhere\nEverything\nDisappeared\nAway\nFrom\nCommon\nSense\nAnd\nOrdinary\nSpeech\nTo\nReach\nA\nHeight\nBeyond\nOur\nReach\nWhere\nWords\nWere\nNot\nNecessary\nTools\nBut\nKeys\nOpened\nLock\nof\nSoothing\nCool\nOf", 5, "The hawthorn held its breath of white\nAgainst the bruising purple sky,\nWhere shadows stretched and grew too long\nTo hide the way your eyes drew nigh.\nWe sat where roots had cracked the stone\nAnd ferns uncurled in morning dew,\nA world of green and silver light\nThat felt entirely new to you.\nYou spoke of things the wind might steal\nIf not for how the branches bowed,\nYour voice a low and steady hum\nBeneath the flowering summer cloud.\nI memorized the shape of sound\nBut let the meaning slip away,\nFor some sweet truths are meant to live\nOnly within the heart they stay.\nThe secrets of that whispered hour\nAre locked behind a silent gate,\nNo tongue can tell what passed between\nThe blossom and the trembling fate.\nNow years have turned the leaves to brown\nAnd stripped the tree of all its snow,\nBut still I guard the words you said\nWhere only we and wild things know.", 6, "The hawthorn stood in white and wild profusion\nAgainst a sky of bruised and tender blue,\nWhere shadows played a quiet, shifting motion\nAnd only birds knew what we two would do.\nHe leaned his weight against the roughened bark\nAnd spoke in tones that wove through summer air,\nA language meant to leave no visible mark\nUpon the moss or on the grasses there.\nI watched the way the sunlight caught his hair\nAnd traced the lines of wonder on his face,\nWhile secrets hung suspended in the rare\nAnd heavy silence of that holy place.\nHe whispered things the wind could not repeat,\nA promise kept within a closed-up hand,\nThat turned the ordinary into sweet\nAnd made the solid earth feel like soft sand.\nNow years have passed and seasons turn their wheel,\nBut I still see him standing in the light,\nWith all he said remaining far too real\nTo share with day or speak to anyone at night.\nThe tree still blooms when spring returns again,\nIts petals falling like a silent prayer,\nHolding the echo of those words unseen,\nA sacred space where nothing else compares.\nI keep them safe beneath my beating heart,\nThose mysteries he offered just to me,\nNever to be torn from us or part,\nBut locked away where only memories free.", 6, "The hawthorn stood like a sentinel of white,\nIts branches weaving shadows on the grass,\nWhere we sat close beneath the fading light,\nAnd watched the golden hours slowly pass.\n\nThe air was thick with scent of rain and bloom,\nWhile bees hummed low within the heavy air,\nYou leaned your shoulder gently in the gloom,\nAnd whispered things that only I could hear.\n\nYour voice was soft as moss upon the stone,\nA secret language meant for us alone,\nIt traced the curve of jaw and ear and bone,\nAnd left a silence that I still have known.\n\nI do not know the words you spoke that day,\nNor what they promised or what they concealed,\nThey melted in the twilight's gentle sway,\nInto the roots where ancient secrets yield.\n\nLet them remain within the leafy deep,\nA hidden vow the wind can never tell,\nFor some things are too sacred to keep,\nToo intimate for any tongue to spell.", 6, "The hawthorn bloomed in clouds of white and pink,\nA canopy that held the afternoon.\nWe sat where shadows danced and softly sank,\nBeneath the rustle of the gentle green.\n\nThe air was thick with scent of rain and bloom,\nAnd silence stretched between us like a thread.\nYou spoke in whispers from the quiet gloom,\nOf things too sacred for the world to read.\n\nI watched the light play on your steady face,\nWhile words you chose remained within my chest.\nNo echo could betray that hidden space,\nWhere secrets found their rest inside my breast.\n\nThe wind might shake the branches high above,\nBut what you said is mine to keep alone.\nA fragile, fierce, and unspoken love,\nBeneath the hawthorn's ancient, thorny throne.", 7, "The hawthorn bowed its white-blossomed head,\nA canopy of lace against the blue,\nWhere sunlight fractured through the leaves above,\nAnd painted gold upon the mossy hue.\n\nWe sat within that quiet, green embrace,\nWhile bees hummed low beneath the summer air,\nYou spoke a thing I cannot write or say,\nA secret woven into tangled prayer.\n\nYour voice was soft as wind through rustling grass,\nYet carried weight enough to make me still,\nI held your gaze until the world dissolved,\nAnd time forgot to move beyond the hill.\n\nNow years have passed and seasons turned their wheel,\nThe tree stands tall with bark both rough and deep,\nBut what you whispered in that sacred shade,\nIs mine alone, a promise I will keep.", 6, "The hawthorn bloomed so thick above,\nA canopy of cream and green,\nWhere shadows danced beneath the clove,\nAnd silence reigned within this scene.\n\nYou sat with me upon the moss,\nSo close I felt your breathing deep,\nThe world above could make no loss,\nFor promises we meant to keep.\n\nI do recall the rustling leaves,\nThe scent of rain upon the stone,\nBut what you whispered softly please,\nIs now a truth I claim alone.\n\nOh, how the sun would break through gray,\nTo catch the mist upon your cheek,\nYet fade into the turning day,\nBefore the final words could speak.\n\nSo let the wind rewrite the tune,\nLet birds replace the tone you made,\nBeneath this blooming, ancient boon,\nMy quiet vow is strictly laid.", 6, " beneath  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n", 1], [169, "train", "The Falling Leaves by Margaret Postgate Cole", "Margaret Postgate Cole", "\"A poem about leaves falling silently from a tree, representing the countless soldiers dropping one by one in war, their bodies blanketing the fields like snowflakes covering the earth in a vast, peaceful, and sorrowful silence.\"", "Today, as I rode by,\nI saw the brown leaves dropping from their tree\nIn a still afternoon,\nWhen no wind whirled them whistling to the sky,\nBut thickly, silently,\nThey fell, like snowflakes wiping out the noon;\nAnd wandered slowly thence\nFor thinking of a gallant multitude\nWhich now all withering lay,\nSlain by no wind of age or pestilence,\nBut in their beauty strewed\nLike snowflakes falling on the Flemish clay.", "A single leaf detaches from the bough\nAnd drifts without a sound to touch the ground\nAnother follows, then another now\nAs autumn winds make no triumphant sound\n\nThey fall like men who stood in ranks so tight\nBefore the silence took them one by one\nThe green of youth gives way to fading light\nUntil the battle's roar is fully done\n\nNo drumbeat marks their final resting place\nJust soft descent upon the trampled soil\nA quiet hush covers the open space\nWhere life has paid its heavy, final toll\n\nThe field grows white with uniforms of gray\nLike snowflakes settling on a frozen plain\nThey lie as still as shadows at the day\nThat never breaks again to bring the rain\n\nA vast and peaceful sorrow fills the air\nAs nature wraps the fallen in her shroud\nThere is no glory left for us to share\nOnly the silence rising through the cloud", "Not \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "A single leaf lets go\nthen another\ndrifting on a breath none hears\nwhile high in boughs of shaken wood\nthe whole army waits its turn\nto fall\nnot with the crash of falling stone\nbut as a whisper\nas a sigh\nthat settles softly on the grass\none by one\nthey come\nand where the earth was once a sea of green\nnow white and pale and still\nthey cover all\nlike snowflakes killing summer\nblanketing the blood\nin a vast\npeaceful\nand sorrowful\nsilence\nwhere no footstep sounds\nand only autumn\ncounts the dead\nwho lie\nat peace\namong\ntheir kin\nwho fell\nbefore\nthem\nall\ngone\nsilent\nstill\ncovered\nover\nby\nthe\nweight\nof\nmany\nmore\nwho\nmust\ncome\ndown\nto\njoin\nthe\nwhite\nand\nweeping\nsnow\nof\nsoldiers\nwho\nhave\nstopped\nmoving\nstopped\nspeaking\nstopped\nbeing\nonly\nlying\nthere\nbeneath\nthe\ntree\nthat\nsheds\nits\nskin\nof\nwar\nfor\none\nlast\ntime\nof\nrest\nof\ndeath\nof\nquiet\nof\nno\nmore\nsound\nof\nany\nkind\nof\ncry\nof\nrage\nof\npain\nof\nlife\nthat\nwent\nout\nwith\na\nleaf\nthat\nturned\nfrom\ngreen\nto\nbrown\nto\nnothing\nelse\nbut\nearth\nagain\nwhere\nall\nreturns\nto\ndust\nand\nmemory\nis\nall\nthat\nfalls\nbeside\nthem\non\nthe\nground\nwhere\nnone\nwill\nsee\ntheir\nfaces\nclear\nbut\nknow\nthat\nonce\nthey\nwere\nalive\nand\nnow\nthey\nare\nthe\nblanket\nthat\ncovers\nup\nthe\nworld\nfrom\nlooking\ntoo\nhard\nat\nall\nthat\nwent\naway\nto\nstay\nbehind\nin\nsilence\nthat\nnever\nends\nor\nbegins\nor\nstops\nor\nstarts\nbut\njust\nis\nthere\nlike\nsnow\nthat\nnever\nmelts\nbut\nonly\npiles\nhigher\nand\ndeeper\nunder\nsky\nthat\nwatches\nwithout\nweeping\nwhile\nthe\ntree\nstands\nempty\nof\nits\nchildren\nwho\nwere\nsoldiers\nwho\nwere\nsons\nwho\nwere\neveryone\nwho\nhad\nto\ngo\nand\ndid\nnot\nreturn\nto\ncall\ntheir\nnames\nback\nhome\nto\nwhere\nthe\nhearth\nwas\nwarm\nbut\nonly\nreturned\nto\nlie\ndown\nnext\nto\nthose\nwho\ncame\nbefore\nand\nthose\nwho\nfollow\nafter\nall\nof\nthem\ntogether\nin\nthe\nfield\nthat\nlooks\nlike\nwinter\nthough\nit\nmight\nbe\nlate\nautumn\nwhen\nthe\nwind\ncomes\nthrough\nand\ntakes\nanother\none\naway\nto\njoin\nthe\nheap\nof\nfallen\nthings\nthat\nlook\nlike\npeace\nbut\nwere\nnot\nmeant\nto\nbe\nsuch\ncalm\nsuch\nstill\nsuch\ndead\nsuch\nfinal\nend\nof\nall\nthat\nmoved\nand\nspoke\nand\nloved\nand\nlived\nand\nthen\nwent\nout\nto\nbecome\nthe\nsnow\nthat\ncovers\nup\nthe\ngrave\nof\nevery\nman\nwho\nfell\nwhile\nthinking\nof\nhis\nhome\nor\nthinking\nof\nno\nmore\nthan\njust\nthe\nnext\nstep\nforward\ninto\ndarkness\nthat\nwas\nnot\nsupposed\nto\nbe\nhis\nend\nbut\nwas\nhis\nend\nall\nsame\nas\nall\nthe\nothers\nwho\nwent\nfirst\nwho\nwent\nlast\nwho\nwent\nbetween\nwho\nwent\nto\n nowhere\nelse\nbut\nhere\nto\nlie\ndown\nflat\nand\nwait\nfor\nspring\nthat\nnever\ncomes\nfor\nthose\nwho\nsleep\nbeneath\nthe\nleaves\nthat\nlook\nlike\nsnow\nthat\nlooks\nlike\ndeath\nthat\nlooks\nlike\nlife\nthat\nwent\naway\nto\nleave\nbehind\nonly\nthe\nsilence\nof\nthe\ntree\nthat\nholds\nno\nmore\nof\nwho\nit\nwas\nbut\nonly\nwhat\nit\nhas\nbecome\na\ncollector\nof\nthe\ndead\nwho", 2, "A single leaf detaches from the bough\nAnd drifts without a sound to touch the ground\nAnother follows, then another now\nAs autumn winds and distant cannons pound\nThey fall in rows of red and gold and brown\nLike uniforms that once were bright and new\nThe forest floor begins to wear a gown\nOf fallen men who had a life to do\nNo trumpet sounds to mark their quiet end\nNo marching feet to shake the frozen earth\nJust silent bodies where the brothers bend\nTo lie beside the ones they knew since birth\nThe field grows white with snow of human form\nA blanket soft against the bloodied soil\nCalm as a storm that never comes to harm\nBut brings an everlasting, heavy toil\nThe trees stand bare and watch the landscape grow\nWith every breath the wind blows through the air\nA soldier drops where only grasses blow\nLeaving a silence heavy everywhere\nIt looks like winter coming down too soon\nBut it is death in all its pale disguise\nCovering up the battle and the noon\nWith peaceful, sorrowful, and falling sighs\nThe world holds still beneath this snowy weight\nWhere leaves and soldiers rest in one deep sleep\nToo late to open any locked gate\nToo far for any promise they could keep\nOnly the silence remains to tell the tale\nOf how the many fell to save the few\nAs nature covers all the tragic pale\nIn layers of the old and dying dew", 7, "The green turns gold then brown and loose\nA silent drift from bough to air\nNo trumpet sounds, no bugle blows\nJust gravity and empty prayer\n\nOne falls, a soldier in the dark\nThen two, then ten, a quiet rain\nThey do not strike with clashing steel\nBut lie as soft as winter's grain\n\nThe field grows white beneath their weight\nNot snow, but uniforms of gray\nA blanket woven from the dead\nTo hide the mud and wash away\n\nThe noise of battle fades to dust\nAs leaf on leaf descends so slow\nA vast and sorrowful repose\nWhere only silence dares to grow", 6, "The wind does not howl, the branches do not cry,\nJust a slow release of green turning to brown,\nA quiet surrender as they drift and fly,\nTo settle softly on the ground below.\n\nOne by one they fall without a sound,\nLike young men stepping from the line of fire,\nTheir heavy forms upon the trampled ground,\nExtinguishing the last remaining light.\n\nThey pile in layers where the wheat once stood,\nA carpet woven from the lives they lost,\nNo trumpet calls to break the solitude,\nJust silence growing deep within the frost.\n\nThe field is white with fallen leaves and snow,\nA vast and peaceful shroud for all the dead,\nWhere sorrow moves so gently, soft and low,\nThat even grief forgets to speak or weep.\n\nThe earth accepts them with a silent breath,\nAnd wraps the world in blankets cold and deep,\nA garden grown from life that ended death,\nWhile nature watches over those who sleep.", 6, "The wind does not howl this evening,\nIt only whispers through the boughs,\nAnd one by one, the green turns gold,\nThen brown, then drifts without a sound.\n\nThey fall as soldiers once did fall,\nNo drumbeat marks their final step,\nJust heavy hearts and weary limbs\nThat cease to fight, that cease to weep.\n\nA single leaf descends alone,\nLike one young man who drops in dust,\nThen another joins the silent flight,\nUntil the air is thick with loss.\n\nThe field below begins to change,\nA carpet woven from the dead,\nAs soft as snow upon a grave,\nAs quiet as a prayer unsaid.\n\nThere is no thunder, no alarm,\nJust nature's gentle, grim embrace,\nWhere countless bodies rest at last,\nIn this vast, sorrowful space.\n\nThe earth is blanketed in stillness,\nA white shroud made of fallen leaves,\nPeaceful in its terrible depth,\nWhere silence is the only breath.", 6, "A single green turns gold and lets go,\nDrifting down without a sound,\nOne by one the branches thin,\nUntil the forest floor is bound.\n\nThey fall so soft upon the grass,\nNo thunder breaks the quiet air,\nJust heavy hearts that cease to beat,\nAnd bodies laid with gentle care.\n\nThe field becomes a sheet of white,\nThough beneath the cloth lies red,\nA vast and silent winter snow,\nWhere countless fallen heroes rest.\n\nNo wind can lift them now again,\nNo song can wake the deep repose,\nJust leaves that turned to men before,\nNow blanketing the earth in snows.", 6, "Above the canopy, a single green turns gold,\nDetaches without sound, without a plea.\nIt drifts across the misty air so cold,\nTo rest beneath the ancient, gnarled tree.\n\nSo does a soldier drop into the deep,\nOne uniform fading into shadow's thread.\nNo drumbeat wakes the valley from its sleep,\nJust silence wrapping round the quiet dead.\n\nThey fall in patterns vast and soft and slow,\nUntil the rust is hidden beneath white.\nThe crimson bloom beneath the branches show,\nIs now just flesh beneath the frost of night.\n\nA blanket made of limbs that will not rise,\nLike snowflakes covering the weary ground.\nReflecting calm within the storm-wreathed skies,\nWhere hope makes no reply to make a sound.\n\nSo vast the field where every leaf has lain,\nSo peaceful is this final, gentle rain.", 7, "Green\u6539\u5199 write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 7], [178, "ultra_held_out", "I Loved You by Alexander Pushkin", "Alexander Pushkin", "\"A poem about a speaker expressing his enduring love and deep affection for a past beloved, describing the many ways he has loved her, and wishing her the same devoted love from another.\"", "I loved you: yet the love, maybe,\nHas not extinguished in my heart;\nBut hence may not it trouble thee;\nI do not want to make you sad.\nI loved you hopelessly and mutely,\nNow with shyness, now with jealousy being vexed;\nI loved you so sincerely, so fondly,\nLikewise may someone love you next.\nTranslation by Emil Sharafutdinov:\nI loved you; even now I must confess,\nSome embers of my love their fire retain;\nBut do not let it cause you more distress,\nI do not want to sadden you again.\nHopeless and tonguetied, yet I loved you dearly\nWith pangs the jealous and the timid know;\nSo tenderly I love you, so sincerely,\nI pray God grant another love you so.", "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light,\nWhen shadows stretched across the floor and silence held us tight.\nI loved you in the storms that raged against the glass,\nWatching how your spirit stood while all the others passed.\nI loved the way you laughed at jokes no one else could hear,\nThe gentle weight of sorrow when a single tear drew near.\nI loved the summer dust motes dancing in the air,\nAnd every unspoken promise that we never dared to share.\n\nMy love was not a fleeting spark that burned and turned to gray,\nBut roots that went deep beneath the soil to hold you through the day.\nIt was in the coffee cups I left beside your bed,\nIn words I swallowed back to keep the peace within our head.\nIt was in the patience waiting for you to find your way,\nThrough nights of doubt and wandering into the breaking day.\n\nNow though the road has parted and my hands can no longer hold,\nA story written in the heart that time cannot unfold,\nI wish for you a lover who will see what I have seen,\nWho cherishes the fragile beauty of your soul so clean.\nMay he love you as I did, with every breath he draws,\nWithout a single question or a hesitation's pause.\nMay he guard your weary spirit and lift you when you fall,\nAnd answer every whisper before you speak it at all.\nI give you to another now, with blessings on my tongue,\nThat you may know the devotion where my song is sung.", "Edward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\n Edward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\nEdward\n", 1, "I loved you in the quiet of the morning\nWhen dew still clung to edges of the grass\nAnd later in the fervor of the noon\nWhen shadows were but brief and passing things\nI loved the way your laughter broke the air\nLike sudden birds taking flight from heavy boughs\nI loved the silence when we had no words\nMore than all speeches ever offered twice\nI loved your hands that worked and held and tended\nThe fragile lives we tried to grow together\nI loved your doubts as much as your assurance\nYour sharp edge and your soft and yielding heart\nThere was a part of loving all the unknown\nA hunger satisfied by simply being near\nBut since those days have passed and roads diverged\nMy affection has not wavered or grown cold\nIt settled like a root in deeper earth\nThat drinks the memory of our rainy years\nSo may another come who sees your worth\nNot just as I once saw it in the spring\nBut finds a way to love you even more\nTo tend the garden where my feet grew tired\nTo hold your hand with such devoted care\nThat every doubt you bear dissolves away\nAs mine dissolved before your smiling face\nGo forth and be admired and greatly loved\nBy someone who will cherish all you are\nFor having known your beauty, none should lack\nThe very best devotion life affords\nMy heart remains a witness to your grace\nWhile wishing yours a joy far greater still\nFrom hands that know exactly how to stay\nFrom eyes that see the wonder in your soul\nAs clearly as I did on all those days\nBefore the world grew large and we grew far\nStill loving you in all these different ways\nStill hoping he loves you ten times as well\nAs I have always loved and always will\nIn ways unseen and spoken nevermore\nExcept in prayers sent out on evening wind\nMay he return the fullness of his heart\nAs often as he hears your happy laugh\nAs often as he sees your hair fall loose\nAs often as he notices your mood\nA man who knows the language of your skin\nWho treats your spirit like a holy shrine\nSuch is the wish I hold most dearly now\nThat after all the loving I have done\nAnother comes to offer all he has\nTo keep you safe and warm and wildly loved\nLong after I have ceased to be a part\nOf any landscape that you walk along\nOnly a memory of tender care\nWatching from afar as he attends\nTo every little thing about your life\nWith all the ardor that I once possessed\nWishing him success in loving you\nWishing him a happiness complete\nBecause he gets to love the one whom I\nHave loved and always shall in spirit here\nDevotedly and fiercely and without\nEnd or measure or regret or shame\nOnly the purest form of affection\nDirected toward a woman wonderful\nWho deserves a man who loves her whole\nWho loves her past and present and her future\nWho loves her faults as if they were her charms\nWho loves her dreams as his own guiding stars\nSuch love I pray for you and only you\nThat none besides yourself might suffer less\nOr feel more cared for in this fleeting time\nThan by a lover worthy of your name\nOne who will spend his whole existence\nShowing you the depth of admiration\nThat lingers in the space between us two\nWhere all great passions live and grow and bloom\nUnfazed by distance or by passing years\nUnmoved by anything but your delight\nSuch is the gift I cannot otherwise\nBestow upon the woman whom I knew\nWhose image burns behind my eyelids bright\nWhose voice returns whenever winds blow low\nWhose memory teaches me how to love\nHow to wish another well enough\nTo let him take the place I once occupied\nIn holding all your secrets and your fears\nIn celebrating all your joys and triumphs\nWith such fierce tenderness and such regard\nThat history records his name as hers\nTwo halves of one eternal loving whole\nWhile mine recedes into a gentle hush\nContent to know she finds such joy elsewhere\nSuch joy as I have prayed she always finds\nSuch joy as only deep affection brings\nSuch joy as lasts beyond the dying breath\nSuch joy as proves that loving never ends\nIt only shifts its shape and finds new home\nIn other arms and other beating hearts\nAll while remembering the source of all\nThe origin of such a rare affection\nBegins and ends and lives in loving her\nWho taught me all there is to know of care\nWho showed me all there is to know of loss\nWho opened up the door to such a bliss\nThat knowing her defined the course of all\nMy years and all the hours yet to come\nShe walks ahead and he runs happily\nBeside her throwing flowers at her feet\nThrowing himself down at her very feet\nThrowing his entire self towards her light\nBlinded by glory of her radiant skin\nOverwhelmed by beauty none else", 7, "I loved the way you laughed when rain began to fall\nAnd traced the quiet maps of lines upon your palm\nI loved the silence that we shared without a sound\nThe heavy weight of winter and the spring's first bloom\nI loved the anger that you held then quickly threw away\nThe fragile trust you placed in hands I tried to keep\nI loved the stories that you told about your childhood home\nThe way your hair caught sunlight like a golden thread\nI loved the dreams you whispered late into the night\nThe way you saw a world where nothing went astray\nI loved you not for who you were but for who I became\nWhen standing near your side, the shadows all grew thin\nNow that the seasons have turned and you have walked on by\nI wish another heart might hold you just as deep\nMay someone love the laughter and the tears you hide\nMay someone know the secrets that you never speak aloud\nMay they cherish every breath you take and every step you make\nAs I once did, with all the love a soul can bear\nAnd may their devotion be the shelter that you seek\nA love as steady as the stars above your head\nJust as mine remains, though distant now and far away.", 7, "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light\nBefore the world had woken to its noise,\nI loved you in the shadows of the night\nWhen silence held us like a sacred poise.\nI loved the way you laughed at silly things,\nThe curve your lips would make when you were shy,\nThe rhythm that your walking footsteps bring\nBeneath the vast and unrelenting sky.\n\nI loved you with a patience that could wait\nThrough seasons turning green to gold and gray,\nI loved you even when we disagreed on fate\nAnd walked our separate paths for many a day.\nMy love was not a fire that burned and died\nBut rather like the river carving stone,\nA steady current where my heart resided\nIn every place that I have ever known.\n\nNow though you walk a road I cannot tread\nWith hands I never hold and eyes unseen,\nI send this wish upon the air instead\nThat someone loves you as I always have been.\nMay they adore the very soul you are\nAs deeply as I did through time and space,\nMay they be yours no matter where you are\nAnd find in you their own beloved place.", 7, "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light,\nWhen dust motes danced above the floor we swept together,\nAnd I loved you in the heavy silence of the night,\nWhen storms would rage and shake the window sash.\n\nI loved the way you laughed at jokes that weren't quite funny,\nI loved the stubborn set of jaw when you were right,\nI loved the softness of your hand within my own,\nA tether holding fast against the turning tide.\n\nI loved you through the seasons as they changed their faces,\nIn winter's bite and summer's golden, heavy haze,\nI gave you every part of me that could be given,\nMy fears, my hopes, my weary and my wilder days.\n\nNow though the road has led us to a distant shore,\nAnd I am walking here while you are walking there,\nI wish for you a love that mirrors what I felt,\nA devotion deep enough to heal and to repair.\n\nMay someone hold you with the same fierce tenderness,\nWho counts the moments lost as precious time regained,\nWho sees the world entirely through the lens of you,\nAnd loves you just as fiercely as I have always planned.", 6, "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light,\nWhen shadows stretched across the floor and silence held us tight.\nI loved you in the storm that raged against the glass,\nHolding you through thunder's roll while time refused to pass.\n\nI loved you with a thousand words I never spoke aloud,\nA silent prayer whispered beneath a shifting cloud.\nI loved you in the laughter shared when nothing mattered more,\nAnd in the heavy grief that made me feel your absence sore.\n\nI loved you with my hands that built a home for us to keep,\nWith promises I made to guard your heart while you were asleep.\nI loved you in the seasons turning gold to winter's gray,\nIn every single breath I took to see another day.\n\nBut now I wish this same deep fire for someone else to find,\nTo hold you as I once did, with a gentle, steady mind.\nMay they love you in the sunlight and in storms that tear the sky,\nWith all the depth of devotion that I cannot hide or lie.\n\nSo let them give you what I gave, a love that will not fade,\nA constant, guiding starlight through the mess we sometimes made.\nThough I am gone from where you stand, my wish remains the same,\nThat you are cherished deeply, just as I once knew your name.", 7, "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light,\nWhen dust motes danced above your sleeping form,\nAnd I loved you in the storm that shook the night,\nStanding guard against the wind and rain so warm.\n\nI loved the way you laughed until you cried,\nThe secret stories hidden in your eyes,\nThe gentle strength within your open pride,\nThe vast and endless depth of your replies.\n\nI loved the silence shared across a room,\nThe coffee steam that rose between us two,\nI loved the shadows chasing out the gloom,\nAnd every promise made and kept anew.\n\nThough time has turned the pages of our past,\nAnd separate paths now lead where we must go,\nI hold this memory steady and fast,\nA fire that will never cease to glow.\n\nSo let another find the heart I gave,\nTo walk beside you through the sun and shade,\nTo be the one who makes your spirit brave,\nIn all the ways that my own love once made.\n\nMay they adore the curve upon your smile,\nMay they protect you when the world feels cold,\nMay they make every single mile worthwhile,\nAnd give you back the warmth I used to hold.", 7, "I loved you in the quiet rustle of rain against the glass,\nI loved you in the heavy silence where no words could pass.\nI loved the curve beneath your smile, the shadow on your cheek,\nThe way the light would find your eyes and make the morning break.\n\nI gave my hope to make you rise above the tide's reply,\nI carved my name into the stone beneath the vastest sky.\nI cherished every scattered thread within the tapestry you spun,\nAnd held them close until my heart forgot what it meant to run.\n\nSo let this legacy remain within the wind that turns,\nA fire that does not fade though embers cease to burn.\nMay someone find the vessel now I keep so deep inside,\nWith gentle hands to polish clean the places left untied.\n\nLet them give you what I give, a love without an end,\nLet them be the faithful friend upon whom you can rely.\nFor I write this final verse so you might truly see,\nThat you are worthy of the same devotion set free.", 7, "I write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [182, "train", "Whispers of Immortality by T.S. Eliot", "T.S. Eliot", "A poem about exploring the inescapable presence of death beneath the surfaces of life, love, and sexuality, ultimately consuming all else.", "Webster was much possessed by death\nAnd saw the skull beneath the skin;\nAnd breastless creatures under ground\nLeaned backward with a lipless grin.\nDaffodil bulbs instead of balls\nStared from the sockets of the eyes!\nHe knew that thought clings round dead limbs\nTightening its lusts and luxuries.\nDonne, I suppose, was such another\nWho found no substitute for sense,\nTo seize and clutch and penetrate;\nExpert beyond experience,\nHe knew the anguish of the marrow\nThe ague of the skeleton;\nNo contact possible to flesh\nAllayed the fever of the bone.\n. . . . .\nGrishkin is nice: her Russian eye\nIs underlined for emphasis;\nUncorseted, her friendly bust\nGives promise of pneumatic bliss.\nThe couched Brazilian jaguar\nCompels the scampering marmoset\nWith subtle effluence of cat;\nGrishkin has a maisonnette;\nThe sleek Brazilian jaguar\nDoes not in its arboreal gloom\nDistil so rank a feline smell\nAs Grishkin in a drawing-room.\nAnd even the Abstract Entities\nCircumambulate her charm;\nBut our lot crawls between dry ribs\nTo keep our metaphysics warm.", "The pulse that drums beneath the skin\nIs counting down the seconds in\nA rhythm borrowed from the grave,\nA debt we cannot choose to save.\n\nIn lovers' touch, a fever burns,\nYet every kiss quietly returns\nTo dust that waits within the bone,\nA silent king upon the throne.\n\nThe bed where passion spills its heat\nHolds shadows at the foot of feet,\nFor flesh is but a temporary tent\nBefore the final dark is spent.\n\nWe build our castles on the sand,\nIgnoring how the waves command\nTo wash away the hand that drew\nThe lines of what we thought was true.\n\nNo flower blooms without the root\nThat drinks the water from the suit\nOf earth that claims us all the same,\nErasing names and burning fame.\n\nThe mouth that speaks of endless years\nIs fed by silence and by fears,\nAs life, with all its vibrant art,\nIs just the prelude to the heart's\nFinal surrender to the night,\nWhere light dissolves into the white\nAnd nothing stands, no sound remains,\nOnly the quiet, deep domain.", "Bright hair brushes skin\nbut worms already dreaming\nof appetite\nthat sex asserts\nas a declaration\nnot of beginning\nbut borrowing\nfrom a grave\nalways digging\nupward\nlove locks\nhands\ninterlocking\nwhile roots\nof unseen\ncreatures\nstretch\nbetween\ntheir feet\ndrawing\ndown\nall\nrich\nearth\nreturns\nto\nempt\nby\nelse\nnone\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netc", 1, "Beneath the blush of skin\nwhere arterial rush sings\nthere waits a silent\nancient cold\nthat knows the weight\nof every bone\nbefore it hardens\nto dust\nIn laughter\nsharp as glass\nwe see the edge\nof our own\nfragile\ntransience\nLove\nthat burns\nbright and\nblind\nfeeds\nonly\nthe\nslow\nburn\nof\nend\nThe\nclash\nof\nbodies\nseeking\nheat\nis\nbut\na\ndesperate\ncharm\nagainst\nthe\ncoming\nfreeze\nsex\nthat\nopens\nlike\na\ndoor\nleads\nnot\nto\nnew\nlife\nbut\nto\nthe\nedge\nof\nall\nthat\nmust\ncease\nNothing\noutlasts\nthe\ndark\nthat\nunder\nevery\npulse\nbeats\nits\nown\nrhythm\nof\nreturn\neating\njoy\nfrom\nwithin\nconsuming\nmemory\nand\ntouch\nuntil\nonly\nthe\nquiet\nremains\nabsolute\nand\ninescapable\nas\ngravity\ndrawing\nall\ndown\nto\nthe\nsame\nstill\ncenter\nwhere\ndeath\nhas\nalways\nlived\nwaiting\nfor\nus\nto\narrive\nhome\nat\nlast\nto\nnothing\nmore\nthan\nthe\nearth\nthat\nholds\nour\nname\nno\nlonger\nsaid\nby\nany\nmouth\nonly\nthe\nwind\npassing\nover\nempty\nspace\nwhere\nonce\nwas\neverything\nthat\never\nwas\nalive\nor\nloved\nor\nwanted\nto\nlive\non\nbut\ncannot\nnow\nthat\ntime\nhas\ntaken\nits\ndue\nfrom\nevery\nheart\nthat\nstopped\nbeating\nin\nthe\nnight\nwhile\nwe\nwere\nbusy\nthinking\nwe\nwere\nwhole\nbut\nwere\nalready\ngone\nto\nbecome\npart\nof\nthe\ngrave\nthat\nopened\nup\nto\nswallow\nthe\nworld\nwhole\nwithout\nasking\nwhy\nor\nwho\nor\nwhen\njust\ntaking\nit\nall\nback\nto\nthe\nsource\nof\nsilence\nthat\nnever\nspoke\nnor\nlistened\nnor\nminded\nthat\nwe\ntried\nto\nlove\nhard\nenough\nto\nstay\nbut\nfailed\nbecause\ndeath\nwas\nalways\nalready\nthere\nunder\nthe\nskin\ninside\nthe\nchest\nbehind\nthe\neyes\nlooking\nout\nwith\nears\nthat\nheard\nonly\nthe\nend\ncoming\ncloser\nevery\nsecond\nof\nevery\nbreath\nwe\ntook\nthinking\nit\nwas\nours\nto\nkeep\nbut\nit\nwas\nnever\nmine\nnor\nyours\nbut\nonly\nhis\nwho\ntakes\nall\naway\nand\nleaves\nnone\nbehind\nexcept\nthe\nmemory\nof\nhaving\nbeen\nbrief\nflashes\nof\nwarmth\nbefore\nthe\nlong\ndark\nsettled\nin\nto\ncover\nall\nthat\nwas\nbeautiful\nterrible\nand\ntrue\nabout\nbeing\nalive\nwhich\nended\nwhen\nthe\nlast\nnote\nfaded\nout\nof\nthe\nsong\nwe\nnever\nfinished\nsinging\nbecause\ndeath\nhad\nalready\nstarted\nlistening\nfor\nthe\nvery\nfirst\nnote\nof\nour\nbeginning\nknowing\nexactly\nwhen\nit\nwould\nhave\nto\nstop\nit\nall\nfrom\nstarting\nagain\nnext\ntime\nor\nnext\nnext\nor\nnever\nagain\nat\nall\nsince\nall\npaths\nlead\nto\nhim\nwho\nwaits\nbeneath\nthe\nsurface\nof\nevery\nthing\nthat\nmoves\nand\nfeels\nand\naches\nand\nwants\nto\nlive\nbut\ncannot\nsurvive\nthe\ntruth\nthat\nhe\nbrings\nwith\nhim\nalways\nready\nto\nend\nit\nall\nwith\none\nfinal\nsilent\ngesture\nof\nemptiness\nthat\nsays\nnothing\nelse\nmatters\nanymore\nnot\neven\ndeath\nitself\nafter\nit\nhas\nfinished\neating\neverything\nelse\ntoo\nincluding\nitself\nin\nthe\nend\nwhen\nthere\nis\nno\none\nleft\nto\nnotice\nthat\nit\nis\nalso\ndead\nby\nthen\nhaving\nconsumed\nall\nthat\nwas\nthere\nto\nbe\nconsumed\nby\nit\nand\nby\nall\nof", 2, "The skin is warm and pulses with a frantic, borrowed heat\nA fever dream of touch that tries to forget the coming cold\nWe press our mouths together seeking something pure and whole\nUnaware the grave already waits beneath the floorboards\nIn every kiss there hides a silent hunger for the end\nA taste of dust that lingers on the tongue before we speak\nLove builds its castles out of breath and bone and fleeting time\nBut the tide of silence rises up to swallow every stone\nSexuality is but a desperate dance against the dark\nA flash of lightning in a sky that knows it must grow black\nThe body yearns to merge, to fuse, to never be apart\nWhile death stands patiently behind the door, holding the key\nIt drinks the wine we pour, it walks the halls we sweep\nIt watches as we laugh and cry and promise not to leave\nFor nothing lasts except the slow return to quiet earth\nThe root, the worm, the hollow space where all our stories start\nAnd when the final heartbeat fades into the empty air\nThere is no other guest who was not always waiting there", 5, "The rose blooms red against the garden wall\nBut roots drink deep from graves beneath the soil\nA lover's touch is warm and soft and tall\nYet hides the cold that waits to end the toil\n\nWe weave our sheets in silk and satin bright\nAnd whisper vows that time cannot undo\nBut shadows stretch across the candlelight\nTo show the skeleton waiting underneath the view\n\nThe pulse that beats within a chest of love\nIs counting down the seconds left to spend\nA frantic bird above a silent dove\nThat knows exactly where its life must end\n\nNo kiss can seal the breach that death has made\nNo child can stop the river from its course\nThe beauty of the living is afraid\nOf the inevitable, dark and forceful source\n\nIt sleeps inside the skin we wear so well\nIt hums a quiet tune beneath the song\nIt pulls the final curtain on the shell\nWhere everything we were belongs too long\n\nIn every breath we take there lies a grave\nIn every heart there beats a hollow sound\nWe are but dust before we even wave\nTo those who walk upon this sinking ground\n\nSo let us dance while music fills the air\nAnd hold each other close before the night\nFor nothing lasts, and nothing really cares\nAbout the fading of our borrowed light\n\nThe surface breaks, the water turns to ice\nThe fire burns out, the stars begin to dim\nThere is no price too high, no sacrifice\nThat stops the mouth of silence from being grim\n\nIt consumes the love, it eats the sex and sin\nIt swallows up the laughter and the tears\nIt waits for all the worlds to finally win\nBy turning years to dust and years to years", 7, "The pulse beneath the wrist is a ticking clock\nhiding in the warm skin of a lover's neck\nwhere every kiss tastes faintly of the grave\nand the heat that rises between us feeds the cold.\n\nWe build our castles on the shifting sand\nignoring the tide that waits to wash it clean\nthe silk of sheets becomes a winding sheet\nthe laughter in the dark a final breath.\n\nBeneath the bloom, the root is rotting slow\nbeneath the vow, the silence starts to grow\nthe fire of desire is just ash waiting\nto fall and cover all we thought was real.\n\nNo wall can hold the shadow at the door\nno promise strong enough to keep it out\nit drinks the wine, it breaks the cup, it ends\nthe song, the touch, the beating of the heart.", 6, "Beneath the flush of skin where lovers meet,\nA quiet coldness waits to claim the heat.\nThe pulse that drums against a lover's hand,\nIs just a clock ticking toward the sand.\n\nWe build our castles on the shifting shore,\nIgnoring how the tide has gone before.\nThe scent of roses in the morning air,\nHides rot within the soil beneath them there.\n\nEvery touch is borrowed time we keep,\nWhile shadows lengthen while the world's asleep.\nThe fire that burns so bright within the chest,\nWill turn to ash and silence, put to rest.\n\nNo vow can hold the dark at bay forever,\nNo promise strong enough to make it sever.\nIt sleeps inside the seed before the bloom,\nAnd waits within the corners of the room.\n\nIt drinks the wine, it breaks the glass of life,\nIt cuts the thread through every knife and strife.\nUntil the heart stops beating in the night,\nAnd nothing shines but what was lost to light.", 7, "Beneath the velvet skin where pulse beats loud\nA quiet rustling waits within the crowd\nWe build our castles on a shifting sand\nAnd hold each other with a trembling hand\n\nThe fire that burns between us is so bright\nIt casts a shadow stretching into night\nFor every kiss is just a brief delay\nBefore the silence takes the light away\n\nLove weaves its tapestry in threads of gold\nBut time unravels what was once so bold\nThe seed that sprouts within the fertile ground\nIs destined to be lost beneath the mound\n\nWe dance upon the edge of deep decay\nIgnoring how the sun will fade to gray\nNo matter how we run or how we hide\nThe final door stands open, waiting wide\n\nIt waits beneath the laughter and the song\nTo make the heavy silence last so long\nUntil the heart, the breath, the flesh, the bone\nAre left alone to face the dark alone", 7, "The rose expands beneath the sun's warm gaze,\nYet in its velvet throat the mold takes root.\nWe build our castles on the shifting sands,\nAnd carve our names into the rotting fruit.\n\nA touch ignites the fire within the veins,\nBut cools to silence as the pulse decays.\nThe lovers merge until their separate frames,\nAre lost within a fading, gray mist haze.\n\nThe tide pulls tight around the coral reef,\nWhere vibrant hues give way to bleached and bone.\nBeneath the laughter rides the final thief,\nTo make the seed into the soil alone.\n\nNo fortress stands against the quiet deep,\nNo promise breaks the contract written there.\nThe eyes that love must eventually sleep,\nAnd breathe into the vast, unyielding air.", 7, "The polish\u5e2e\u6da6 rewrite\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\u5e2e\u6da6\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7], [186, "ultra_held_out", "At Last We Killed The Roaches by Lucille Clifton", "Lucille Clifton", "A poem about a speaker reflecting on the killing of roaches in her childhood home, moving from relief to regret and considering the act as murder against creatures simply living the best they could.", "at last we killed the roaches.\nmama and me. she sprayed,\ni swept the ceiling and they fell\ndying onto our shoulders, in our hair\ncovering us with red. the tribe was broken,\nthe cooking pots were ours again\nand we were glad, such cleanliness was grace\nwhen i was twelve. only for a few nights,\nand then not much, my dreams were blood\nmy hands were blades and it was murder murder\nall over the place.", "The click of the shoe against the tile\nwas a satisfying punctuation to a long day,\na small victory in a war I didn't understand,\njust the instinctive relief that the dark thing was still.\n\nI remember the spray mist hanging in the kitchen air,\nsweet and chemical, a scent that meant safety,\nmeant clean floors and parents nodding approval\nthat we were protecting our little kingdom from the scuttling invaders.\n\nBut now, standing in a quiet room years later,\nthe memory shifts its weight, heavy and strange,\nand I see not a monster but a creature trying to survive,\nnavigating a world too large and too bright for its small eyes.\n\nThey were only looking for crumbs in the cracks,\nseeking warmth under the sink where the pipes hummed,\nliving their brief, frantic lives with a desperate purpose\nthat I never paused to honor or even notice.\n\nWhat did I know then of their right to be here?\nTo scurry and breed and fear the thunder of my foot?\nI called it pest control, a necessary cleaning,\nbut now it feels like murder against the innocent.\n\nWe are all just trying to live the best we can,\nhiding in the shadows, eating what we find,\nand I wonder if they felt the same sudden shock,\nthe same confusion when the light went out forever.", "The killing blow was always instant\nreturned by shouting\nby rubbing pennants\nbetween pale kitchen hands\nthat cheered\nsuch \u2013 such \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The kitchen was a battlefield of yellow light\nwhere sudden stamps and newspaper blows\nbrought instant silence to the clicking feet\nthat raced along the linoleum edges\nand for years I cheered the flattened brown\nthe satisfying wet thud that ended all\nof those invasions in our rented home\nrelief washed over me like summer rain\nas if we were defending sacred ground\nfrom monsters crawling out of every crack\nbut time has softened edges sharp with childhood fear\nand now I see not monsters but small lives\ntrying desperately to survive\nto eat the crumbs they found by chance\nto hide from shadows much larger than themselves\nthey killed no one yet killed anyway\nby hands that grew impatient and hard\nwas it murder or just killing\nwhen a creature asks only for a dark corner\nto live its brief and frantic life\nwe called it hygiene then\ncalling it war\nbut looking back at those crushed shells\nI wonder who was worse\nthe one who ran\nor the one who swung\nthinking such violence\nwas simply necessary\nfor things\nthat merely\nwere\nliving\ntheir\nbest\nat\nall\ncosts\nto\nthemselves\nwhile\nwe\nstood\nover\nthem\nwith\nour\ngreat\nbig\nfeet\nand\nsaid\nno\nmore\nyou\nmust\nnot\nbe\nhere\neven\nthough\nthere\nwas\nroom\nenough\nin\nsuch\na\nbig\nhouse\nfor\neveryone\nto\nlive\nif\nonly\nwe\nhad\nstopped\nto\nlook\nbefore\nwe\nstepped\ndown\nhard\non\neverything\nthat\nmoved\ntoo\nquickly\nin\nthe\ndark\nnow\nevery\nclick\nof\nfoot\nagainst\nthe\nfloor\nsounds\nlike\nan\napology\nfrom\nghost\nsize\ncreatures\nwho\nnever\nmeant\nto\nharm\nbut\nwere\nalways\nalready\ndead\nby\nthen\nby\nhabit\nby\nfear\nby\ncareless\nstrength\nof\nhands\nthat\nthought\nthey\nowned\nthe\nnight\nbut\nreally\njust\nrented\nit\nalong\nwith\neverything\nelse\nwe\ntrample\nwithout\nthinking\nof\nthe\nworld\nbeneath\nour\nshoes\nthat\ntries\nits\nvery\nbest\nto\nsurvive\nus\nall\nlong\nafter\nwe\nhave\ngone\nto\nsleep\nand\ndream\nof\nbeing\nclean\nof\nbeing\nsafe\nof\nhaving\nnothing\nelse\nto\nkill\nbesides\nthe\nbugs\nthat\nknow\nno\nlaw\nexcept\nthe\nlaw\nof\nstaying\nalive\nwhich\nwe\nalso\nfollow\nblind\nand\nbrave\nand\noften\nwrong\nabout\nwho\ndeserves\nto\nlive\nand\nwho\nmust\ndie\nby\nour\nown\nhand\nbecause\nwe\ncannot\nbear\nto\nsee\nanother\nthing\nthat\nbreathes\nmove\nnear\nour\nspace\nor\ntouch\nour\nskin\nor\nask\nfor\nmore\nthan\ncrumbs\nof\nlife\nleft\nbehind\nby\nthose\nwho\nthink\nthey\nare\nthe\nonly\nones\nwho\nmatter\nmost\nof\nall\nwho\nsay\nthat\nothers\nmust\nnot\nbe\nwho\nstamp\nout\nlittle\nlives\nwith\nheavy\nheels\nand\ncall\nit\norder\ncall\nit\nhome\ncall\nit\nright\ncall\nit\nnecessary\nwar\nagainst\nthe\nsmall\nwho\nnever\nstarted\nany\nfight\nbut\nwere\nalways\nalready\ngoing\nto\nbe\nkilled\nby\nthose\nwho\nhad\nmore\npower\nmore\nsize\nmore\nreason\nmore\ncontrol\nmore\ntime\nmore\nspace\nmore\nair\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\nrights\nmore\n", 2, "The kitchen light hummed low that summer night\nAs I watched the shadow skitter on the tile\nMy slipper came down hard, a sudden weight\nThat crushed the hard shell with a sickening crack\nA wave of relief washed over my small chest\nAnother monster banished from the dark\nI felt the victory of a human hand\nAgainst the things that crawled and hid and fed\nBut years have softened edges of that joy\nAnd now I see the creature not as pest\nBut as a life that sought to simply be\nTo find a crumb of bread and stay alive\nIt knew no malice in its scuttling rush\nNo plan to harm or steal or ruin home\nJust instinct driving it through cracks and walls\nTo live the best it could within its skin\nAnd I who stood so tall and held such power\nDid end a world for nothing more than fear\nA murder done by feet and heavy shoe\nAgainst a heart that beat in tiny drums\nWe called them vermin then and killed without a thought\nNow silence holds the memory of those deaths\nWhere every step was taken just to live\nAnd I was all too quick to stop their breath.", 3, "The kitchen floor was white with dust and fear\nAnd I would stomp with heavy, rubber soles\nA satisfying crunch that cleared the air\nAnd made the shadows feel less like a home\nI felt a surge of triumph in my chest\nAs if I'd won a war against the dark\nThat night the house was mine again to breathe\nNo skittering feet to break the quiet sleep\n\nBut years have passed since then and now I see\nThe tiny legs that scrambled for their lives\nNot monsters sent to steal our bread or peace\nBut tenants seeking shelter from the cold\nThey ran because they lived and loved their young\nJust as we do within our walls of brick\nAnd I who held the power of a god\nDecided death was all they deserved\n\nWhat right had I to end a frantic heart\nThat only wanted food and somewhere safe?\nWe called it pest control, a necessary act\nBut in the silence of my adult mind\nIt sounds too much like murder plain and simple\nFor creatures doing nothing but surviving\nTrying their best to be alive at all\nWhile I stood tall and crushed them without thought\nNow every shadow holds a ghostly sound\nOf tiny wings that never got to fly\nAnd I am left to wonder if the guilt\nIs just another insect in my head\nOr if the blood is real upon my hands\nFrom killing those who asked for nothing more\nThan space to live the best they could.", 2, "The spray hissed white against the dark tile\nAnd I felt a sharp, clean triumph rise\nAs the twitching legs went still at last\nA monster slain beneath my heel.\nMy mother smiled and wiped the floor\nSaying good riddance to the pest\nWe celebrated the quiet house\nFree from the skittering in the wall.\n\nBut years have softened that hard edge\nAnd now I see it differently\nNot as a victory of light\nBut as a small and sudden death.\nThey were not demons sent to harm\nJust hungry things seeking their share\nNavigating cracks and shadows\nTrying to live as best they could.\n\nI wonder if they knew the fear\nOf falling from the ceiling high\nOr if they thought the world was vast\nUntil the fog came down too soon.\nWe called it cleaning, called it safe\nBut in that moment of relief\nI committed murder on a soul\nThat only wanted bread and warmth.", 2, "The click of the heel against the linoleum\nbrought a clean, sharp silence to the kitchen floor,\na momentary victory for the human hand\nthat swatted away the dark, skittering shadow.\n\nI felt the lightness then, the pride of order restored,\nbelieving I had banished chaos from my safe haven,\nthat each crushed shell was a trophy of hygiene\nand that their sudden stillness was justice served.\n\nBut now the years have softened the edge of that certainty,\nand I see them not as invaders but as tenants\nwho sought only the warmth of the walls and the crumbs beneath the sink,\nliving their short, frantic lives with desperate purpose.\n\nThey did not ask for war, nor did they understand the weapon,\njust scurrying through the cracks in search of sustenance,\ndoing what any creature does when the world is vast and cold.\n\nTo call it pest control feels like a lie we told ourselves\nto make the blood on the sole of our shoes feel less heavy,\nfor in that instant of crushing, I committed murder\nagainst a soul that simply wanted to survive.", 2, "I remember the sharp crack of the shoe\nagainst the linoleum, a sudden end\nto the skittering shadow beneath the sink.\nA clean strike, a dry crunch, and then silence.\nMy mother would nod, satisfied with the order restored,\nand I felt that same lightness in my chest,\na victory against the chaos, the filth, the intruder.\n\nBut now the house is quiet for other reasons,\nand the memory shifts like dust in a sunbeam.\nI see them not as pests but as small, desperate lives,\nnavigating a world too vast and cold for their tiny legs.\nThey were not trying to harm us, only to survive,\nseeking a crumb, a drop of condensation, a place to rest.\n\nWhat right did we have to judge their existence?\nTo decide that their presence was an offense worthy of death?\nWe called it cleaning, but it felt so much like erasing.\nThey were just living the best they could within the cracks,\nhiding from the giant thundering feet above.\n\nNow I wonder if every crushed shell was a sentence passed\nwithout a trial, without understanding.\nDid they feel fear before the shadow fell?\nDid they dream of warm corners and endless feast?\nI mourn the simple, frantic rhythm of their days,\nthe way they moved with purpose through our walls,\nuntil I became the storm that ended them.", 2, "The rustle beneath the baseboard made me start,\nSo I found the can and misted until it stopped.\nA tiny crumple on the checkered tile,\nAnd silence rushed in where the scuttling lived.\n\nI remember the clean calm that followed then,\nA quiet pride within my mother's chest,\nAs if we'd won a war against the dark,\nAnd scrubbed the polish into safety deep.\n\nNow decades fade the polish into haze,\nAnd make me rewrite what I did so small.\nTo drop upon a creature seeking light,\nIs not to save a house but end a life.\n\nThey only wanted crumbs beneath the sink,\nTo raise their brood within the humid draft,\nLiving the best they could with legs so thin,\nUntil I turned their world to static gray.\n\nWhat right had I to judge their need for food?\nOr deem their shadow-wandering as sin?\nWe called them pests to make the act feel clean,\nBut now I see the mirror turning round.\n\nI am the giant stepping through the maze,\nThe final judge who\u5224\u5904 without reply,\nReflecting now upon that spilled mistake,\nAnd feeling vast regret replace the relief.", 3, "So write  \n\nwrite write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write", 1], [189, "ultra_held_out", "I, Being born a Woman and Distressed by Edna St. Vincent Millay", "Edna St. Vincent Millay", "A poem about a woman navigating the frenzy of desire and biology while asserting her power to walk away from any man without being possessed.", "vI, being born a woman and distressed\nBy all the needs and notions of my kind,\nAm urged by your propinquity to find\nYour person fair, and feel a certain zest\nTo bear your body\u2019s weight upon my breast:\nSo subtly is the fume of life designed,\nTo clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,\nAnd leave me once again undone, possessed.\nThink not for this, however, the poor treason\nOf my stout blood against my staggering brain,\nI shall remember you with love, or season\nMy scorn with pity,\u2014let me make it plain:\nI find this frenzy insufficient reason\nFor conversation when we meet again.", "The blood sings a loud and ancient song\nof hips that sway and lungs that burn,\na primal rhythm pulling strong\ntoward the heat of every turn.\nHer pulse beats fast against her skin,\na wild tide rising in the chest,\ninviting all the world within\nto put her fragile self to test.\n\nYet in this storm of want and need,\nwhere biology demands its due,\nshe stands as sovereign of her seed\nand knows exactly what to do.\nShe feels the hunger, sharp and deep,\nthe gravity that pulls so near,\nbut holds a promise she will keep:\nthat no one owns her when they're here.\n\nLet him reach out with hands that crave,\nlet him whisper words of binding love,\nshe is the wave that leaves the grave\nof any man who thinks he's above.\nShe walks away without a sound,\nunbroken by the pull or plea,\nher feet upon the solid ground\nfree from the chains of fantasy.\n\nNo man can hold the wind inside,\nno lover claim the open sky,\nshe carries nothing left to hide\nbeneath the vast and watching eye.\nDesire may roar and flesh may ache,\nbut power rests in her release,\nfor every step she chooses take\nis hers alone, and brings her peace.", "The blood shouts orders in a language\nrich and sudden as \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The blood rushes hot and loud\ncalling out an ancient name\nthat asks to be answered\nby a body trembling\nnot in fear but in readiness\nfor the collision\nof two burning things\nbut she hears the sirens\nof instinct\nand chooses her own language\nShe tastes the sweetness\nof his nearness\nfeels the gravity\nthat wants to pin her down\nto earth\nto him\nto a story\nwhere she is only\nthe setting\nor the prize\nor the quiet after\nShe opens her hands\nempty\nthen closes them\nfirm\naround her own spine\nShe steps back\nfrom the edge\nof the hunger\nthat says\nyou are mine\nshe says\nno\nI am here\nwhole\nunopened\nwalking away\nfrom the altar\nof appetite\nwith all her bones\nstill hers\nall her breath\nstill her own\nmoving\nnot as a leaf\ndriven by his wind\nbut as a ship\nsteering\naway\nfrom any port\nthat demands\nshe sink\nto stay\nShe leaves\nnot denying\nthe fire\nbut refusing\nto be\nthe wood\nthat feeds it\nshe walks\ninto her\nown\nsilence\nfree\nof his\npossession\nfree\nof his\nreach\njust herself\ngoing\non\naway\nfrom\nhim\naway\nfrom\nit\nall\nonly\nher\nfootsteps\ncount\nnow\nonly\nher\nchoice\nremains\nbright\nand\nsharp\nas\na\nblade\ncutting\nthrough\nthe\nthick\nair\nof\nwant\nshe\nis\nnot\ntaken\nshe\nis\nnot\nowned\nshe\nis\ngoing\nhome\nto\nherself\nagain\nalways\nagain\nnever\nstopped\nnever\nheld\nnever\nbought\nby\nthe\nrush\nof\nbeing\nwanted\nonly\nby\nthe\nlaw\nof\nbeing\nshe\nwho\nsays\nno\nto\nthe\ngrave\nof\nhis\nlove\nsays\nyes\nto\nthe\nsky\nof\nher\nskin\nand\nwalks\naway\nfrom\nany\nman\nwho\ncannot\nsee\nthat\nshe\nwas\nnever\nhis\nto\nhave\nnever\nhis\nto\nkeep\nnever\nhis\nat\nall\nbut\nonly\nhers\nonly\nhers\nonly\nhers\nwalking\nout\nof\nthe\nheat\ninto\nthe\ncool\ndark\nof\nher\nown\nwill\nwhere\nshe\nstands\nwhole\nand\nuntouched\nby\nany\nhand\nbut\nher\nown\nholding\nherself\ntightly\nclose\nto\nthe\ncenter\nof\nall\nthat\nshe\nis\nnot\nhis\nnot\nhis\nnot\nhis\nmine\nmine\nmine\ngone\nfrom\nhim\ngone\nfrom\nthem\ngone\nfrom\nthe\nfrenzy\nback\nto\nthe\nself\nwho\nknows\nhow\nto\nsay\nno\nwhen\nevery\npart\nof\nbiology\nsays\ngo\nshe\nsays\nno\nand\nopens\nup\nthe\ndoor\nto\nleave\nnot\nlooking\nback\nat\nthe\nshadow\nof\nhis\ndesire\nstretching\nout\nto\ngrab\nbut\nknowing\nit\nstops\nright\nthere\nat\nthe\nedge\nof\nher\nskin\nwhere\nhe\nhas\nno\nentry\nwhere\nhe\nhas\nno\npower\nwhere\nshe\nis\nking\nof\nher\nown\nbody\nand\nqueen\nof\nher\nown\nend\nand\nshe\nwalks\naway\nfrom\nany\nman\nwho\nasks\ntoo\nmuch\nwho\ntakes\ntoo\nhard\nwho\nwants\nto\nbe\nmore\nthan\na\nguest\nin\nthe\nhouse\nof\nher\nheart\nshe\nlocks\nthe\ndoor\nshe\nthrows\naway\nthe\nkey\nshe\nis\nnot\npossessed\nshe\nis\nnot\nowned\nshe\nis\nnot\ntaken\nshe\nis\ngoing\naway\nfrom\nhim\nfrom\nall\nof\nthem\nfrom\nthe\nnoise\nfrom\nthe\nrush\nfrom\nthe\nneed\nto\nbe\nneeded\nby\nanother\nto\nbe\ndefined\nby\nanother\nshe\ndefines\nherself\nby\nthe\nspace\nbetween\nher\nfeet\nand\nthe\nground\nby\nthe\nstep\nthat\ncarries\nher\nfar\nfar\naway\nfrom\nany\nman\nwho\nthinks\nhe\nowns\nthe\nroad\nshe\ntravels\nshe\nowns\nthe\nroad\nshe\nowns\nthe\n", 2, "The blood sings a loud and ancient song\nof heat and hunger, of the body's need\nto be held, to be known, to be taken whole\nby hands that reach out from the dark.\nIt is a fever that climbs the spine\nand tightens the breath until the world\nshrinks down to the space between two skin\nwhere biology demands a collision.\n\nBut she knows the map of her own bones\nbetter than any lover ever could\nshe feels the pull of gravity and moon\nand chooses instead to stand still\nin the center of the storm she makes\nnot as prey waiting for the wolf\nbut as the hunter who has seen the trap\nand stepped lightly over the wire.\n\nLet him offer his teeth and his tongue\nlet him promise to own the very air\nthat fills her lungs when she decides\nto turn her back on the altar of want\nshe walks away with her head high\ncarrying nothing but herself\nunclaimed, unbroken, and entirely free\na woman who belongs only to her own\nrefusal to be possessed by anyone\nwho thinks desire is a deed of ownership\nrather than a choice she grants or denies\nwith a simple step into the open night.", 5, "The blood sings a frantic, ancient song\nof heat and hunger in the dark,\na tide that pulls at the marrow\ndemanding to be held, to be kept.\nHe offers his hands like cages of gold,\nhis voice a hook in the softest part,\nbut I feel the pulse not as an invitation\nbut as a drumbeat for my own march.\n\nI am not the prey caught in the net\nof biology's heavy, wet demand.\nI am the hunter who decides when to stop,\nthe gatekeeper of my own skin.\nLet the fever burn bright and wild,\nlet the instinct scream for a partner,\nfor I have learned the quiet power\nof turning my back on the altar.\n\nNo man owns the rhythm of my breath,\nno hand can claim the space I occupy.\nI walk away from the edge of the cliff\nwhere desire tries to push me down,\nstepping back into the cool air\nwith a spine straight and unbroken,\nfree to choose, free to leave,\nentirely mine, never possessed.", 3, "The blood sings a wild, ancient tune\nThat drums against the ribcage walls,\nA hunger that seeks to make you whole\nBy pulling at the invisible chains.\nHe speaks in low, heavy tones\nOf fate and fire and destiny's hand,\nBut I feel the pulse of my own drum\nBeating a rhythm strictly mine.\n\nI can taste the salt of his desire\nLike a storm rolling in from the sea,\nIt wants to drown me, claim the shore,\nTo turn my name into his property.\nYet here I stand with feet on solid ground,\nUnmoved by the gravity of need,\nFor biology is a tide, not a master,\nAnd I am the captain of this vessel.\n\nLet him offer the world or the night,\nOr promises wrapped in velvet lies,\nI hold the key to my own door\nAnd the power to let it swing wide shut.\nNo man holds the leash to my soul,\nNo voice can command where I go,\nI walk away through the heat of the frenzy,\nFree as the wind, untouched, and whole.", 5, "The pulse drums loud against the wrist\nA primal rhythm, hot and fast\nThe body sings a ancient song\nOf heat that makes the shadows cast\n\nBut in this tide of rising need\nWhere instinct pulls the mind astray\nShe stands apart, a sovereign queen\nWho holds the key to walk away\n\nNo hand can claim what she refuses\nNo shadow bind the light she keeps\nHer flesh may burn with wild desire\nYet still her spirit deeply sleeps\n\nLet biology demand its due\nWith frantic beats and hungry eyes\nShe owns the door, she owns the lock\nShe owns the truth beneath the skies\n\nTo leave is not a loss or fear\nBut power carved from stone and bone\nShe walks through fire without a scar\nAnd claims a kingdom all her own", 6, "The pulse beneath the skin is loud,\nA drumbeat calling out to flesh,\nTo let the wild and ancient crowd\nDecide the boundaries of my mesh.\n\nMy blood runs hot, a tide that pulls,\nAgainst the quiet walls I build,\nYet in this chaos, deep and full,\nI find the will that cannot yield.\n\nYou offer eyes that claim the night,\nAnd hands that seek to make me stay,\nBut I am not a stolen light,\nOr prey within your hunting sway.\n\nThe biology may scream its need,\nTo bind, to break, to take, to keep,\nBut I possess a sovereign seed\nThat wakes while you are fast asleep.\n\nSo let the frenzy rise and fall,\nLet desire pull with iron might,\nI answer to no master's call,\nI walk alone into the night.", 6, "The pulse beats loud beneath the ribcage drum,\nA primal rhythm pulling tight against the will.\nHer skin hums with the static of what could be,\nThe heavy tide that drags so deep and still.\n\nYet in this chaotic storm of want and need,\nWhere eyes rewrite the script to make her yield,\nShe finds the quiet center, calm and cold,\nRefusing to make flesh into a shield.\n\nLet biology write its frantic, tangled score,\nLet desire carve the canyon deep inside.\nNo chains can bind the vessel made for flight,\nNo shadow cast upon the path untied.\n\nShe turns within the swirling crowd of hearts,\nAnd feels the draft expand across the floor.\nI am not prey, I am the closing door,\nI walk alone until I find my shore.", 6, "The rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [190, "train", "I Have a Rendezvous with Death by Alan Seeger", "Alan Seeger", "\"A poem about a speaker coming to terms with his unavoidable death, describing his curiosity about dying and his dutiful acceptance of meeting death in the spring.\"", "I have a rendezvous with Death\nAt some disputed barricade,\nWhen Spring comes back with rustling shade\nAnd apple-blossoms fill the air\u2014\nI have a rendezvous with Death\nWhen Spring brings back blue days and fair.\n\nIt may be he shall take my hand\nAnd lead me into his dark land\nAnd close my eyes and quench my breath\u2014\nIt may be I shall pass him still.\nI have a rendezvous with Death\nOn some scarred slope of battered hill,\nWhen Spring comes round again this year\nAnd the first meadow-flowers appear.\n\nGod knows 'twere better to be deep\nPillowed in silk and scented down,\nWhere Love throbs out in blissful sleep,\nPulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,\nWhere hushed awakenings are dear ...\nBut I've a rendezvous with Death\nAt midnight in some flaming town,\nWhen Spring trips north again this year,\nAnd I to my pledged word am true,\nI shall not fail that rendezvous.", "The winter in my bones has settled deep\nAnd I have counted every fading leaf,\nYet now a strange and quiet hunger stirs\nTo see what lies beyond the final breath.\nIs it a door that opens to the light?\nOr just a silence soft as falling snow?\nI do not fear the dark that waits for me,\nBut wonder at the shape of what I'll know.\n\nThe sap begins to rise within the trees,\nA green command that pulls against the cold,\nAnd so I turn my face toward the spring\nTo meet the end with stories yet untold.\nIt is my duty now to lay down arms,\nTo walk the path where all men must eventually go,\nTo greet the reaper in the blooming grass\nAnd let the season take its gentle flow.\n\nNo struggle now, no bitter fight with time,\nJust open hands and eyes wide with desire,\nTo step into the mystery of death\nAmidst the fire of flowers and the spire.\nThe world will wake while I begin to sleep,\nA fair exchange beneath the warming sun,\nI go to join the cycle of the earth\nUntil the work of dying is undone.", "The killing frost returns\nto Edward\nEdward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward", 1, "The winter has been long and sharp\nBut spring returns to call\nA sudden wonder in the heart\nAbout the coming fall\nNot of a year but of the breath\nThat holds me here awhile\nTo wonder what lies after death\nAnd if it bears a smile\nI feel no terror in the air\nOnly a strange delight\nAs flowers start to everywhere\nUnfold their pale white sight\nIt seems a duty owed to time\nTo step aside and go\nWhen all the earth begins to climb\nIn greens that softly grow\nSo I will meet him when he comes\nWith sap running through the wood\nAmong the singing birds and blooms\nWhere all good things have stood\nNo fighting back against the law\nOf seasons and of years\nJust walking out from nature's jaw\nWithout a trace of fears\nThe blossom opens on the bough\nAs life prepares to end\nI watch the clouds and wonder how\nSuch peace can ever bend\nThen straighten up and face the light\nThat warms the killing frost\nKnowing that dying is not night\nBut Spring at very last\nA dutiful and curious guest\nWho waits to see the door\nOpened by the season's breast\nTo enter once more\nInto the great unknown and bright\nWhere roots and stars are one\nAccepted by the morning light\nBefore the setting sun\nThe killing spring arrives to kill\nAll things that grew before\nAnd I am ready still\nTo walk out from my shore\nAnd see if death is like a flower\nOr just another leaf\nSurrendering to spring and hour\nBeyond all pain and grief\nYes spring comes calling for the dead\nWho knew they had to die\nAnd answers with a loving head\nBeneath a summer sky\nI come prepared to meet the guest\nWho brings the killing snow\nAnd finds his home among the west\nWhere all good flowers grow\nNo anger in the heart or hand\nOnly a wondering eye\nTo see where all must go\nWhen spring bids all men fly\nDutifully I step aside\nAs blossoms brush the ground\nThere is nowhere else to hide\nFrom such a holy sound\nThe killing spring is here at last\nTo take its tender due\nAnd I am glad it came so fast\nTo say all things are new\nNew to the grave and old to none\nNew to the dying man\nWho sees the killing of the sun\nBegin his killing plan\nNot killing but returning home\nTo earth and dust and root\nWhere all our borrowed lives must roam\nLike leaves about\nSpring calls and I must go\nWhy should I stay behind\nWhen all the killing starts to grow\nLeaving death far behind\nDeath killed by killing spring\n Killed by killing spring\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed by killing\n Killing killed", 7, "The winter has unspooled its final thread\nAnd left the hollow house of bone exposed\nI wonder how the dark will taste when fed\nTo roots that drink from where my blood was closed\nNot with a scream but with a quiet thirst\nTo see if silence holds a different sound\nIf death is merely earth returned to first\nOr if it lifts the heavy, mortal ground\nMy duty calls me not in frost or snow\nBut when the sap begins to rise and creep\nWhen all the world says now is time to grow\nAnd I must go while others start to sleep\nSo spring arrives to meet me at the door\nWith green and gold and life so bright and new\nI walk out lightly onto grassy floor\nTo greet the end as old friends always do\nNo fear remains to hold my spirit back\nOnly the curiosity of the deep\nTo see what lies beyond the river's track\nWhere all who loved and lived their part must sleep\nThe season turns and I am ready too\nTo fall like petals from the bough above\nTo let the light wash through the morning dew\nAnd trust the earth to keep the things I love\nIt comes not as a thief in dead of night\nBut as a guest invited by the bloom\nTo guide me gently from the pale of sight\nInto the garden of the coming gloom\nI go with wonder in my slowing heart\nTo learn the secret that the flowers know\nHow dying is a part of starting art\nHow letting go allows the seeds to sow\nThe spring is here and I am glad to go\nWhere all the questions find their final rest\nIn soil that waits to make the spirit whole\nAnd leaves the body for the earth to bless\nI step forward into the warming air\nAnd meet the death that comes to claim its due\nKnowing that nothing ever really dies\nBut changes shape beneath the sky of blue\nThe blossom opens wide to welcome me\nAs winter fades and summer starts to breathe\nA curious peace sets all my worries free\nAs I descend to where the roots believe\nThat ending is a way to truly live\nTo join the cycle spinning round and round\nWhere life and death one single ribbon give\nAnd silence is the most profoundest sound\nSo here I stand as daylight starts to wane\nAnd watch the shadows stretch across the lawn\nReady to face the inevitable rain\nThat washes all the weary days withdrawn\nI accept the hand that reaches from the grass\nTo pull me down among the sleeping dead\nTo watch the golden hours slowly pass\nAnd trade the breath for words that cannot be said\nSpring holds the key to all the locked-up doors\nAnd I have turned the handle in my mind\nLeaving behind the cares of yesterdays\nTo leave the heavy, human weight behind\nThe flower opens and the petal falls\nAnd I am ready for the great unknown\nTo hear the wind blow softly through the halls\nOf earth where all the buried secrets grown\nI go with joy to meet the silent grave\nNot as a victim but as one who knows\nThat every living thing must eventually save\nIts self by planting in the earth it sows\nThe spring is calling and I answer loud\nTo walk into the arms of winter's end\nTo vanish like a whisper in a cloud\nAnd find the beginning where the roads all bend\nDeath is not an enemy to fear\nBut just the door that opens to the light\nTo clear away the dust and doubt and tear\nAnd set the wandering soul to take its flight\nI am content to lie down in the green\nTo feel the sun upon my cooling skin\nTo wait for all the things I have not seen\nAnd let the work of living finally begin\nAgain in other forms and other ways\nThrough roots and shoots and birds that fly and sing\nI offer up my last and final days\nTo be the soil where future lives take wing\nThe moment comes and I am not afraid\nFor curiosity has led me far\nBeyond the edge of all the maps we made\nTo where the truest stars are meant to be\nThe spring has come to gather up the dead\nAnd I am walking toward the open gate\nWith nothing but a question in my head\nAnd all the patience of the waiting fate\nTo see what happens next when breath is gone\nAnd all the stories that we told are done\nI go to listen closely to the dawn\nAnd see the rising of the second sun\nIn earth and leaf and root and bird and bee\nI find the answer to the mystery\nThat death is just another form of free\nAnd I am home at last in history\nThe spring is here and I am ready now\nTo close my eyes and let the darkness come\nTo bow before the sacred, silent vow\nThat brings the beating heart to sudden numb\nNo more the struggle or the desperate cry\nOnly the wonder of the falling leaf\nTo watch the endless river flow on by\nAnd find in dying such a strange relief\nI meet", 7, "The winter has worn thin against my skin\nAnd I have watched the frost retreat in shame\nNow wondering what lies beyond the door\nNot with a scream but with a quiet name\n\nI wonder if the dark will taste like rain\nOr if it feels like falling through a cloud\nTo see the stars unhidden by the breath\nThat once was mine and now is far too loud\n\nIt is not fear that holds me in this chair\nBut curiosity for the unknown road\nTo step outside the house of beating hearts\nAnd leave the heavy burden of the load\n\nThe sap is rising in the maple tree\nThe crocus breaks the earth to say hello\nIt seems a fitting time to meet my end\nWhen life returns to all the fields below\n\nSo I will walk out when the green appears\nAnd greet the figure waiting in the light\nA dutiful guest arriving on cue\nTo join the spring and welcome in the night", 6, "The winter in my bones has turned to dust\nAnd I am tired of holding up the sky\nYet still a strange and quiet wonder stirs\nTo see what lies beyond the closing eye\n\nIs it a silence soft as falling snow?\nOr simply light that breaks the heavy gray?\nI do not fear the end that comes so slow\nBut wish to know the shape of dying day\n\nThe sap begins to rise within the wood\nThe buds are breaking through the frozen ground\nIt seems a fitting time for me to stand\nWhere life and loss together can be found\n\nSo let the green shoots push against the stone\nWhile I step forward with a steady hand\nTo meet the season that I claim as mine\nAnd join the cycle of the waking land", 7, "The clock upon the wall has stopped its tick,\nAnd silence fills the room where I once stood.\nI find a strange and quiet curiosity\nIn how the final breath might feel so good.\n\nIs it a door that swings on rusted hinges?\nOr simply fading light into the gray?\nI wonder if the dark will bring cold fingers,\nOr just a soft and gentle drift away.\n\nYet winter's frost is lifting from the ground,\nAs green shoots push beneath the thawing snow.\nIt seems a fitting time for me to drown,\nTo let the spring take back what I must go.\n\nSo I will walk with steady steps outside,\nWhere cherry blossoms fall like scattered tears.\nI make my peace with nothing left to hide,\nAnd meet the end amidst the blooming years.", 6, "The clock upon the wall has lost its tick,\nAnd silence fills the corners of my chest.\nI find I do not fear the final trick,\nBut wonder what it means to take this rest.\n\nIs it a quiet room or open sky?\nDoes light dissolve into a softer gray?\nMy questions rise like birds that want to fly,\nYet wings are heavy with the weight of day.\n\nNo storm will break the glass above my head,\nFor winter's chill is fading from the air.\nI make my peace with what must soon be said,\nAnd tie my spirit to the season there.\n\nLet green buds burst where I shall cease to stand,\nLet rain wash clean the dust upon my face.\nI walk toward you with an open hand,\nTo meet you in this bright and blooming place.", 7, "The final thread is fraying at the hem,\nAnd I feel no fear within this quiet chest,\nBut rather make a gentle turn to them,\nTo write my name upon this fading vest.\n\nI find myself so curious of the change,\nOf what awaits beyond the closing eye,\nIf silence makes a sound so vast and strange,\nOr if the stars rewrite the ancient sky.\n\nSo let me wait until the green breaks through,\nWhen buds expand beneath the warming rain,\nFor now I walk with calm resolve so true,\nTo meet the end amidst the blooming plain.\n\nIt feels correct to leave when life renews,\nA duty done beneath the cherry bloom,\nI give my weary heart without delays,\nAnd make my peace within this spring's soft gloom.", 7, "The check write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [191, "ultra_held_out", "i am water by Rupi Kaur", "Rupi Kaur", "\"A poem about being both a life-giving and life-taking force, exploring how softness and toughness are coexisting within the same essential nature.\"", "i am water\n\nsoft enough\nto offer life\ntough enough\nto drown it away", "I am the rain that fills the thirsty root\nAnd breaks the stone with patient, heavy drops,\nA gentle touch that wakes the sleeping shoot\nWhile carving canyons where the river stops.\n\nMy hands can cradle life within a seed\nOr crush the forest down to ash and dust,\nI offer water for the smallest need\nThen swallow cities in my rising flood.\n\nThe same soft breath that cools a fevered brow\nCan freeze the ocean till the ships are dead,\nI build the mountain high and bring it low\nWith equal grace and unrelenting dread.\n\nThere is no war between the hand that holds\nAnd the one that strikes the final, quiet blow,\nFor in my nature, mercy and control\nAre woven from the very self I know.", "My hands are opened\nrich alluvia\nbearing\nthe killing\nof barren\nearth\nby\nwater\nthat\nkills\nthen\nfeeds\ndrawing\nup\nroots\nfrom\notherwise\nhard\ndeath\nto\nenter\ntheir\nliving\n Otherwise\nsharp\nedges\ncut\naway\npoison\nblocking\nelse\notherwise\nblocked\nout\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\n", 1, "I am the dew that kisses\nthe trembling leaf awake\nand also the frost\nthat freezes it to ash\nin a single breath\nof winter air\nthere is no war\nbetween the hand\nthat plants the seed\nand the foot\nthat crushes it\nfor the soil\nmust drink\nboth the spring\nand the rot\nto know\nwhy roots\nreach down\nwhile branches\nreach up\nsoftness\nis not\nthe lack\nof edge\nbut the\nprecision\nof the\nblade\nthat opens\nfruit\nbefore\nit spoils\ntoughness\nis not\nhardness\nbut the\nendurance\nof the\nriver\nthat wears\naway\nthe stone\nby loving\nits shape\ntoo much\nto ever\nstop\nmoving\nwe are\none\ncurrent\ncutting\nthrough\ntime\nfeeding\nall\nby\ntaking\nall\nback\nto\nstillness\nwhere\nbeginning\nand\nending\nhold\neach\nother\nclose\nlike\ntwo\nhands\nclasped\nover\na\nbeating\nheart\nthat\nstops\nonly\nto\nstart\nagain\nin\nanother\nskin\nanother\nname\nanother\nlaw\nof\ngiving\nback\nwhat\nwas\nlent\nfrom\nthe\ndark\nrich\nearth\nthat\nknows\nno\ndifference\nbetween\na\ngrave\nand\na\ngarden\nboth\nare\nhome\nto\neverything\nthat\nonce\nwas\nalive\nand\nnow\nreturns\nto\nbecome\nthe\nnext\nliving\nthing\nborn\nfrom\ndeath\nas\ndeath\nwas\nborn\nfrom\nlife\nin\nan\nendless\nloop\nof\ngrace\nthat\nkills\nto\nlive\nand\nlives\nto\nkill\nnot\nout\nof\ncruelty\nbut\nout\nof\nnecessity\nthe\ngreat\ncirculation\nof\nbeing\nthat\nasks\nnothing\nmore\nthan\nto\nbe\nwhole\nby\nholding\nboth\npoles\nof\nexistence\nwithout\nflinching\nat\nthe\nedge\nof\nour\nown\nsharp\nsweet\nnature\nthat\ncuts\nand\nheals\nwith\nthe\nsame\nsilent\ntouch\nthat\nwinds\nup\nthe\nclock\nand\nthen\nlets\nit\nrun\ndown\ninto\nthe\nquiet\nthat\nfeeds\nus\nall\nagain\nand\nagain\nand\nalways\nstarts\nnew\nfrom\nthe\nash\nof\nthe\nlast\nbright\nflame\nthat\nburned\ntoo\nhot\nto\nstay\nor\ntoo\ncold\nto\nlast\nexcept\nin\nmemory\nof\nhow\nwe\nwere\nonce\nwhole\nbefore\nwe\nlearned\nto\nchoose\nbetween\nsaving\nand\ndestroying\nwhen\nall\nalong\nwe\nwere\ndoing\nboth\nat\nonce\nin\nevery\nnote\nof\nthe\nsong\nthat\nnever\nends\nbecause\nit\nnever\nbegins\ntruly\nseparate\nfrom\nthe\nsilence\nthat\nholds\nit\nall\ntogether\nin\none\nunbroken\nstrand\nof\nbeing\nthat\ncannot\nbe\nrent\nby\nany\nknife\nnor\nsaved\nby\nany\nprayer\nonly\nknown\nby\nthose\nwho\nhave\nbled\nand\nhave\nbeen\nfed\nby\nthe\nvery\nsource\nthat\ntook\ntheir\nbreath\naway\nto\nlet\nthem\nbreathe\nit\nall\nback\nin\nas\nrain\nas\nbone\nas\nroot\nas\nsky\nthat\nfalls\ndown\nto\nrise\nup\nonce\nmore\nin\nthe\nbody\nof\nthe\nworld\nthat\nloves\nus\nby\neating\nus\nby\nspitting\nus\nout\nto\nlove\nagain\nin\ndifferent\nforms\nof\nsoft\nhard\ntruth\nthat\nnever\nlies\nabout\nwho\nwe\nreally\nare\nboth\ncreator\nand\ndestroyer\nboth\nmother\nand\nexecutioner\nboth\nthe\ncradle\nand\nthe\npyre\nthat\nwarms\nthe\ndead\nto\nbirth\nnew\nchildren\nfrom\nthe\nheat\nof\nour\nown\nconsumption\nof\nself\nand\nother\nin\na\ndance\nthat\nhas\nno\nstep\nbut\nmovement\nitself\nthat\nhas\nno\nmusic\nbut\nthe\nsound\nof\ngetting\ntaken\nback\nto\nwhere\nwe\nstarted\nfrom\nwhich\nwas\nalways\nhere\nwaiting\nto\n", 6, "I am the rain that feeds the thirsty root\nAnd also the flood that sweeps the house away\nThe gentle hand that cradles a newborn's head\nThe crushing fist that ends the dying day\n\nMy skin is moss, a velvet, silent green\nThat softens stone and hides the jagged edge\nYet deep inside, my core is iron cold\nA glacier grinding through the mountain ridge\n\nI bloom in spring with petals thin as breath\nThen burn the forest down to clear the way\nThe same warm sun that wakes the sleeping seed\nIs fire that turns the living world to gray\n\nDo not mistake the tenderness for weakness\nNor fear the hardness thinking it unkind\nFor life and death are woven in one thread\nBy hands that hold the wound and heal the mind\n\nSoftness and strength are not two different things\nBut notes within a single, ancient song\nWhere every ending starts a new beginning\nAnd where I am both broken and belong", 6, "I am the rain that breaks the drought\nAnd drowns the roots beneath the soil,\nA gentle touch that brings about\nThe harvest and the sudden toil.\n\nMy hands are soft as morning mist\nTo cradle seeds in darkened earth,\nYet when the winter winds have kissed,\nThey strip the forest of its worth.\n\nI hold the river in my palm\nTo quench the thirst of dying clay,\nThen summon up a violent storm\nTo wash the weary world away.\n\nThere is no war between these two\nWithin the pulse that drives the tide,\nFor life must end to start anew\nWhere I am both the door and guide.\n\nThe tender bloom and crushing frost\nAre woven in the very same thread,\nThe only difference is the cost\nOf being born or being dead.", 7, "I am the rain that fills the cup\nand the flood that breaks the dam,\nthe gentle hand that lifts the young\nand the heavy stone that crushes them.\n\nMy touch is velvet on the skin\nwhere seeds begin to wake,\nyet I am also iron in the storm\nthat strips the branches bare.\n\nThe same breath cools a fevered brow\nand chills the final sigh,\na softness that invites the bloom\na hardness that denies the sky.\n\nDo not ask me which I choose\nfor I am both at once,\nthe cradle and the open grave,\nthe silence and the gun.\n\nIn every drop of water lies\nthe ocean's crushing weight,\nin every leaf that turns to dust\nthe promise of the gate.\n\nI hold the world within my palm\nwith fingers made of light,\nthen close them tight to end the day\nand swallow up the night.", 6, "I am the rain that wakes the sleeping seed,\nA gentle kiss upon the thirsty ground,\nYet I am also flood and rising tide,\nThat sweeps the village from its sacred mound.\n\nMy touch can heal a wound with velvet grace,\nOr break the bone beneath a winter's weight,\nThe same cold hand that holds a newborn face,\nCan drag the weary sailor to his fate.\n\nSoft as the mist that clings to morning grass,\nHard as the stone that cracks the river's bed,\nI let the fragile bloom and watch it pass,\nAnd feed the roots of what is living dead.\n\nNo war exists within my single breath,\nBetween the cradle song and final sigh,\nFor life requires the mercy and the death,\nTo keep the endless circle turning high.", 7, "I am the rain that breaks the drought,\nA gentle hand upon the seed,\nYet I am also flood and rout,\nThe crushing weight of need.\n\nMy touch can heal a fractured bone,\nOr grind the mountain to the sand,\nI make the garden bloom alone,\nThen wash it from the land.\n\nSoft as the mist at break of day,\nHard as the glacier's ancient core,\nI give the light, I take away,\nAnd leave nothing behind but more.\n\nThe same deep river, wild and wide,\nThat cradles life within its flow,\nCan pull the drowning deep inside,\nWhere silence makes the currents slow.\n\nNo split exists between the two,\nThe mercy and the final sting,\nFor in my nature, old and new,\nI give the breath, then take the wing.", 6, "I am the rain that breaks the drought's tight fist,\nTurning parched soil into a blooming mist.\n\nI wrap my mist around the seedling's stem,\nAnd write the gentle verses on its gem.\n\nYet I can carve the canyon deep and wide,\nWith waves that swallow vessels turning tide.\n\nMy touch is velvet soft upon the face,\nUntil I turn to make this quiet place.\n\nThe same cold hand that coos across the cheek,\nCan freeze the river until silence speaks.\n\nI give the breath within the newborn chest,\nThen claim it rest beneath the final rest.\n\nSo do not mistake me for just calm or storm,\nFor gentleness creates what power reforms.", 7, "I carve canyons deep into rewrite make change write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [192, "train", "A Silly Poem by Spike Milligan", "Spike Milligan", "A poem about Hamlet asking Ophelia which pencil he should be using to draw her.", "Said Hamlet to Ophelia,\nI'll draw a sketch of thee,\nWhat kind of pencil shall I use?\n2B or not 2B?", "Ophelia, hold your breath and do not move\nWhile I consult this wooden case of mine.\nThe graphite soft as shadow on the moon\nOr charcoal harsh as winter's bitter line?\n\nPerhaps a 2B, to capture eyes\nThat hold the madness of my father's ghost,\nOr HB, for hair that falls like rain\nUpon a crown I cannot bear to host.\n\nWhich lead shall trace the curve of sorrow there?\nWhich shade will make your silence speak aloud?\nI ask you now, before the ink dries black,\nTo choose the tool that paints our final shroud.", "Pr\u00eate Edward\nEdward killed Edward killing Edward killing Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward", 1, "Princess of Elsinore,\nMy hand trembles with the weight\nOf charcoal and of graphite\nPressed between these killing fingers\nThat killed your father's peace\nBefore it killed his breath\nWhich pencil serves a man\nWho bears such heavy madness\nShall I seize the sharp HB\nTo sketch the lines of sorrow\nThat map your pale forehead\nOr reach for soft B6\nTo shade the tenderness\nStill hiding in your hair\nA harder lead might scrape\nThe innocence away\nWhile softer marks may smudge\nLike all my chances now\nTell me which black wood\nCan hold a likeness true\nWhen everything else\nIs merely suicide\nSelected by a fool\nWho asks too much\nOf drawing pads\nIn ruined gardens\nWhere flowers grew\nBefore he came\nTo ruin all\nWith questions\nAsked\nIn vain\nAbout\nA pencil\nChoice\nBetween\nTwo\nBlacks\nOne\nHard\nOne\nSoft\nBoth\nDead\nEnough\nFor\nHer\nTo\nSee\nHow\nLittle\nMatters\nNow\nExcept\nThe\nLine\nHe\nCannot\nDraw\nStraight\nAnywhere\nNot\nOn\nHer\nSkin\nNor\nOn\nHis\nSoul\nNor\nOn\nThe\nPage\nWhere\nShe\nOnce\nSmiled\nBack\nAt\nMadness\nCalling\nIt\nSelection\nCalling\nIt\nArt\nCalling\nIt\nLove\nCalling\nIt\nDeath\nChoosing\nOnly\nDark\nChoosing\nOnly\nGrey\nChoosing\nNothing\nElse\nBut\nErasure\nComing\nSoon\nTo\nWash\nIt\nAll\nAway\nLike\nWater\nOver\nRocks\nOver\nWords\nOver\nWarnings\nOver\nPencils\nBroken\nOn\nThe\nFloor\nNear\nWhere\nShe\nWept\nAnd\nHe\nAsked\nWhich\nOne\nWas\nBest\nTo\nCapture\nBeauty\nBefore\nIt\nFaded\nOut\nOf\nReach\nOf\nReason\nOut\nOf\nTime\nOut\nOf\nHis\nPoor\nHands\nWhich\nOnly\nKnow\nHow\nTo\nDestroy\nNot\nHow\nTo\nKeep\nNot\nHow\nTo\nDraw\nNot\nHow\nTo\nBe\nBesides\nA\nMan\nWho\nAsked\nAbout\nPencils\nWhile\nWaiting\nFor\nGod\nto\nEnd\nIt\nAll\nOr\nPerhaps\nJust\nOphelia\nLeaving\nFirst\nTo\nShow\nHim\nHow\nIt\nWorks\nWhen\nEverything\nCollapses\nDown\nTo\nDust\nAnd\nGraphite\nStains\nOn\nWhite\nWhite\nPaper\nWhite\nWhite\nBlank\nWhite\nNothing\nMore\nTo\nSay\nAbout\nSelection\nOther\nThan\nNone\nSelected\nNone\nSelected\nEver\nAgain\nBy\nHamlet\nWho\nForgot\nWhy\nHe\nAsked\nIn\nAny\nCase\nOther\nThan\nTo\nKill\nSome\nTime\nBefore\nThe\nNext\nBig\nTragedy\nBegan\nWithout\nWarning\nWithout\nWarning\nAlways\nWithout\nWarning\nLike\nA\nSharpened\nEdge\nThat\nSlips\nFrom\nHand\nTo\nHeart\nLeaving\nOnly\nQuestions\nAsked\nToo\nLate\nAbout\nWhich\nPencil\nUsed\nTo\nSketch\nA\nLady\nWho\nAlready\nGone\nAlready\nLost\nAlready\nDead\nIn\nAll\nBut\nName\nIn\nAll\nBut\nMemory\nIn\nAll\nBut\nThis\nStrange\nQuestion\nAsked\nBy\nGhost\nOr\nBoy\nWho\nThought\nHe\nKnew\nHow\nDrawing\nWorks\nWhen\nReally\nIt\nWas\nNever\nAbout\nThe\nPicture\nOnly\nAbout\nThe\nTrying\nOnly\nAbout\nThe\nFailure\nOnly\nAbout\nThe\nChoice\nThat\nCouldn't\nSave\nAnyone\nNot\nEven\nHimself\nNot\nEven\nHer\nNot\nEven\nThe\nPencil\nSelected\nCarefully\nIn\n vain\nTo\nMark\nHer\nImage\nClearly\nOn\nPage\nAfter\nPage\nAfter\nPage\nOf\nEmpty\nSpace\nWhere\nShe\nShould\nHave\nBeen\nWhere\nShe\nStill\nIsn't\nWhere\nShe\nNever\nReturns\nTo\nAnswer\nSuch\nA\nSilly\nQuery\nAsked\nBy\nMad\nPrince\nWho\nLoves\nToo\nMuch\nTo\nLive\nAnd\nLives\nToo\nMuch\nTo\nDie\nQuickly\nEnough\nTo\nStop\nAsking\nQuestions\nAbout\nStationery\nWhen\nWar\nApproaches\nWhen\nPoison\nBubbles\nWhen\nBlood\nBegins\nTo\nFlow\nFree\nOver\nFloor\nOver\nFoot\nOver\nFace\nOver\nEverything\nIncluding\nThe", 2, "Ophelia, hold your breath and do not speak\nWhile I debate the graphite in my hand\nThis one is soft as shadows on a beach\nOr hard as stone where buried kings have planned\nShall I use charcoal for your hair's dark night?\nOr silverpoint to catch your pale estate?\nThe lead that snaps too easily might fright\nA heart already trembling at our fate\nWhich pencil draws the madness in your eye\nBefore the ink of death begins to dry?\nChoose for me, love, before the world goes by\nAnd let the wood determine how we lie\nFor if I choose the wrong tool for your face\nI may erase you from this wretched place.", 6, "My lady, hold this charcoal black\nTo trace the shadow of your brow,\nOr shall I choose the silver lead\nTo catch the light that lives there now?\n\nThe graphite soft might smudge your cheek\nWith tears I fear are mine to shed,\nWhile hard and sharp, the steel-pointed wood\nCould draw a line where words are dead.\n\nWhich tool befits a prince's hand\nWhen painting out a ghost of grace?\nThe dark to show the depth of grief,\nOr pale to mimic time and space?\n\nSpeak, Ophelia, tell me true\nBefore the wax begins to melt,\nFor if I choose the wrongest shade,\nMy soul in ink is surely spelt.", 6, "Ophelia, hold this graphite still\nWhile I debate the shade of your brow,\nIs it the charcoal soft and dark\nThat best can trace the shadow there?\n\nOr should I take the silver point\nTo catch the light within your eye?\nThe blue is too cold for your cheek,\nAnd red seems a lie for such grace.\n\nTell me, sweet girl, which lead to choose\nBefore the paper turns to dust,\nFor if I pick the wrong one now,\nYour portrait dies before it starts.", 3, "Ophelia, hold your breath and do not move,\nFor in this hand I hold a choice of lead.\nShall I use graphite soft as morning mist,\nOr charcoal dark as Denmark's winter night?\n\nThis one is sharp, like truth that cuts the soul,\nWhile that is blunt, like promises we break.\nWhich shade can capture eyes so full of tears?\nWhich stroke can trace the sorrow on your brow?\n\nThe silver point might make you look too bright,\nToo holy for this rotting, cursed court.\nBut if I choose the iron, cold and grey,\nWill I draw you as ghost or just as girl?\n\nTell me, my love, before the ink runs dry,\nWhich instrument shall fix your fleeting form?\nIs it the pencil meant for light or shadow?\nThe tool for hope, or just for final rest?", 3, "Ophelia, hold your breath and do not speak,\nFor I am lost within this charcoal haze.\nWhich instrument of graphite shall I seek\nTo trace the shadow of your gentle gaze?\n\nIs it the softest lead that breaks so soon,\nLike promises we made beneath the moon?\nOr should I choose the harder, darker grade,\nTo carve the sorrow that my heart has made?\n\nThe umber pencil fades into the mist,\nJust as my father's ghost is now dismissed.\nBut you remain, a sketch upon the wall,\nBefore the final curtain starts to fall.\n\nTell me, sweet maid, before the light decays,\nWhich tool can make your truest image stay?", 6, "Ophelia, hold this still within your hand,\nIs this the charcoal soft to make me write?\nOr does this lead of gray perform so bland,\nTo trace the shadow of your eyes tonight?\n\nI need a stroke that does not fade too soon,\nLike polish'd silver on a velvet gown,\nSo tell me now beneath this fading moon,\nWhich instrument can make you truly crown.\n\nThe graphite breaks if I apply too deep,\nJust like my promise made beneath the sky,\nSo give reply before I cease to keep,\nThis draft of love beneath my weary eye.", 6, "Is this rewrite refine rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [198, "ultra_held_out", "First Day At School by Roger McGough", "Roger McGough", "A poem about a young child navigating their first day of school, struggling to understand their new environment and longing to belong.", "A millionbillionwillion miles from home\nWaiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)\nWhy are they all so big, other children?\nSo noisy? So much at home they\nMust have been born in uniform\nLived all their lives in playgrounds\nSpent the years inventing games\nThat don't let me in. Games\nThat are rough, that swallow you up.\n\nAnd the railings.\nAll around, the railings.\nAre they to keep out wolves and monsters?\nThings that carry off and eat children?\nThings you don't take sweets from?\nPerhaps they're to stop us getting out\nRunning away from the lessins. Lessin.\nWhat does a lessin look like?\nSounds small and slimy.\nThey keep them in the glassrooms.\nWhole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.\n\nI wish I could remember my name\nMummy said it would come in useful.\nLike wellies. When there's puddles.\nYellowwellies. I wish she was here.\nI think my name is sewn on somewhere\nPerhaps the teacher will read it for me.\nTea-cher. The one who makes the tea.", "The hallway stretches long and loud\nWith shoes that squeak and voices proud\nI clutch my coat with fingers tight\nAnd hide away from all the light\n\nThe room is full of shapes I know\nYet none of them will let me go\nThey build a tower, block by block\nWhile I stand silent at the clock\n\nMy stomach feels like heavy stone\nInside this place I must call home\nI watch them laugh and share their toys\nWithout a single word of noise\n\nI want to join the circle round\nBut fear keeps my feet on the ground\nIs there a spot for someone small\nWho does not know the rules at all?\n\nA hand reaches out across the floor\nTo open up a tiny door\nI take a breath and step inside\nWhere maybe now I can abide", "Big hands pinch \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The big door swings shut\nbehind a wall of shouting feet\nand strange smells that taste like dust\nwhile mine are small and shaking\nnext to the slippery floor\nthat stretches out too far\nto ever reach home\nagain\nI hide behind a plastic chair\nwhere giants sit and talk\nof things I do not know\nabout colors or counting\nor why everyone else\nseems to fit together\nlike pieces of a picture\nthat has already been finished\nMy heart beats hard\nagainst my ribs\na little bird trying to fly\nbut nowhere near the sky\nthat lives outside the window\nlooking back at me\nwith all the questions\nof who I am\nin a room full of\nwho they are\nwaiting\nfor someone\nto notice\nthat I\nam\nalso\nhere\nhoping\nthat maybe\nby tomorrow\nthe edges\nof this new\nbig world\nwill soften\njust enough\nto let\nme\nbelong\ninside\nits\nshape\nat last\neven\nif\nit\ntakes\nall\nday\nto\nlearn\nhow\nto\nbe\npart\nof\nus\ninstead\nof\nonly\nme\nstanding\nalone\namong\nthe\nnoise\ntrying\nnot\nto\ncry\nwhile\nlistening\nfor\na\nvoice\nthat\nsays\ncome\nsit\ndown\nyou\nare\none\nof\nus\nnow\ntoo\nbefore\nthe\nbell\nrings\nagain\nto\nstart\nanother\nhour\nof\nbeing\nlost\nbut\nlearning\nto\nbe\nfound\nby\nslow\ndegrees\nof\ntime\nand\nshy\nsmiles\nfrom\nother\nchildren\nwho\nwere\nonce\nafraid\njust\nlike\nme\nwhen\nfirst\nthey\nstepped\ninside\nthis\nplace\ncalled\nschool\nwhere\neveryone\nlearns\nto\ngrow\ntogether\nlittle\nby\nlittle\nhand\nin\nhand\nor\nmaybe\nnot\nquite\nyet\nbut\nsoon\nvery\nsoon\nperhaps\ntoday\nis\nalready\nstarting\nto\nfeel\nless\nlike\nan\nend\nof\nhome\nand\nmore\nlike\na\nbeginning\nof\nnew\nthings\nthat\nmight\nfit\nafter\nall\nif\nonly\nwe\nall\ntry\nhard\nenough\nto\nreach\nout\nour\nhands\nacross\nthe\nempty\nspace\nbetween\nus\nall\nto\nsay\nhello\nto\nsay\nstay\nto\nsay\nwe\nsee\nyou\nthere\nbeside\nus\nright\nwhere\nyou\nstand\nnot\nfar\naway\nnot\nquite\ngone\nbut\nfinally\nnear\nenough\nto\ncall\nourselves\na\nclass\na\ngroup\na\nfamily\nof\nsorts\nthat\nstarted\nsmall\nbut\ngrows\nbigger\nevery\nminute\nof\nevery\nday\nas\nwe\nlearn\nto\nlive\ntogether\nin\nthis\nroom\nof\nbright\nlights\nand\nloud\nsounds\nthat\nno\nlonger\nseem\nquite\nso\nscary\nwhen\nwe\nknow\nthat\nwe\nhave\neach\nother\nto\nlean\non\nwhen\nthe\ndays\nget\nhard\nor\nlong\nor\nconfusing\nas\nmine\nwere\nwhen\nfirst\nI\nentered\nthrough\nthat\nbig\ndoor\nfeeling\nsmall\nand\nall\nalone\nbut\nnow\nrealizing\nthat\nbeing\nnew\nis\nhard\nbut\nbeing\ntogether\nis\neasy\nonce\nwe\nstart\nto\ntalk\nand\nplay\nand\nshare\nour\nstories\nof\ncoming\nfrom\nelsewhere\nto\nmeet\nhere\nat\nlast\nwhere\neveryone\nhas\ntheir\nown\nseat\nbut\nalso\nshares\nthe\nwhole\ntable\nof\nlife\nthat\ngoes\non\nand\non\nand\nnever\nstops\nasking\nwho\ncomes\nnext\nto\njoin\nthe\nsong\nwe\nall\nsing\ntogether\nsoftly\nat\nfirst\nthen\nlouder\nthan\never\nbefore\nas\nwe\nfind\nour\nway\nhome\nto\neach\nother\nstep\nby\nstep\npage\nby\npage\nlesson\nby\nlesson\nheart\nby\nheart\nalways\nmoving\nforward\nnever\nlooking\nback\nexcept\nto\nremember\nthat\nonce\nwe\nwere\nstrangers\nbut\nnow\nwe\nare\nfriends\nwho\ncame\nfrom\ndifferent\nplaces\nto\nbuild\none\nbig\nworld\nof\nlearning\nand\nlove\nthat\nstarts\n", 3, "The hallway stretches like a giant mouth\nThat swallows all the small and quiet sounds\nI clutch my bag with fingers white and tight\nWhile strange new voices swirl around me round\n\nThe chairs are too big for my tiny legs\nThe tables reach up to the ceiling high\nA sea of faces that I cannot read\nWith questions burning in a puzzled eye\n\nI want to be the one who knows the way\nWho finds the book and answers every call\nBut here I stand alone against the wall\nAnd wonder if I fit inside at all\n\nThe bell rings out a sharp and sudden cry\nThat cuts through all the noise and fear and doubt\nI take a breath and step into the stream\nTo see if I can figure life about\nTo see if somewhere in this crowded room\nThere is a space where I am not unknown\nWhere I belong and never have to roam\nAnd find a heart that beats just like my own", 6, "The door is too tall and the hallway too wide\nWith shoes that feel heavy and voices that hide\nBehind painted lockers in rows of bright blue\nI stand very still while the world rushes through\n\nA giant of laughter bumps past with a ball\nAnd I shrink to the floor where the shadows fall\nThey know all the games and they know how to play\nBut I only know how to wait for the day\n\nMy backpack feels like it is pulling me down\nTo the bottom of this strange and noisy town\nI watch them form circles and hold hands so tight\nWondering if I am allowed in the light\n\nIs there a spot empty just waiting for me?\nOr am I a puzzle piece none of them see?\nThe bell rings again and the noise starts to roar\nLeaving me standing behind the classroom door\n\nI want to be someone who fits in the space\nWho knows where to go at their own steady pace\nNot trembling and small with a tear on my cheek\nLonging for home and the quiet I seek\n\nBut then a small hand reaches out from the crowd\nAnd speaks a soft word that is gentle and loud\nCome sit by us here, says the voice clear and sweet\nAnd suddenly the floor feels a little less steep\n\nThe colors seem softer, the air not so thick\nAs I take one small step and begin to get quick\nTo join in the rhythm, to learn how to belong\nTo find where I fit in this unfamiliar song", 6, "The hallway stretches long and loud\nWith shoes that squeak and voices proud\nI hold my mother's hand so tight\nBut she lets go into the light\n\nThe room is full of colors bright\nAnd toys that seem to lose their light\nI do not know where I should stand\nOr how to make a friend or plan\n\nA boy runs past with blocks in hand\nHe does not see me in this land\nI want to speak but words are stuck\nLike stones inside my quiet neck\n\nThe teacher calls a name I know\nBut I just watch the shadows grow\nI wish I were back home again\nWhere everything feels safe and plain\n\nYet somewhere deep beneath the fear\nA tiny hope begins to clear\nMaybe tomorrow I will find\nA place to leave my worry behind", 6, "The hallway stretches long and loud\nWith voices bouncing off the wall\nI clutch my bag so tight and proud\nBut feel so very small\n\nThe colors on the floor are bright\nToo many shapes I do not know\nI hide beneath a chair tonight\nAnd watch the others go\n\nThey run in lines they understand\nA game of tag I cannot play\nI hold my breath and shift my hand\nAnd wish for yesterday\n\nIs there a spot just made for me?\nAmong the noise, the chairs, the light\nA quiet place where I can be\nUntil the bell takes flight\n\nMy heart beats fast against my chest\nLike something lost inside a storm\nI want to find a friendly rest\nAnd make this strange place warm", 6, "The hallway stretches like a giant's throat\nAnd whispers echo off the painted walls\nI clutch my coat until my knuckles turn to stone\nWhile strangers laugh in voices that don't call my name\n\nA sea of chairs waits in perfect, rigid rows\nBut I am lost within this crowded maze\nThe teacher speaks a language made of rules and time\nThat makes my quiet heart begin to race\n\nI watch them share their snacks and trade their toys\nWith hands that know exactly where to go\nMy shadow feels too heavy for this place\nA stranger in a world I cannot see\n\nI wish the ground would open up and take me home\nTo where the light is soft and silence keeps its word\nUntil I find a corner just for me\nOr someone who will ask me what I'm called", 3, "The hallway stretches wide and gray\nWith voices echoing so loud, I turn away.\nMy shoes feel heavy on the tile, my backpack pulls me down, a trail of fear.\n\nI don't know where to put my coat, I don't know how to make a friend, just please let this day end.\n\nThe colors mix into a blur beneath my eyes so tired. The rules are written in a code I cannot decode.\n\nIs this what growing up is made of? Just standing lost inside this maze.\n\nI wish for Mama's hand again, to fix the tangled threads within.\n\nBut slowly, quiet whispers start across the chaotic art.\n\nA girl with paint upon her cheek extends a paper slice.\n\n\"Would you help build towers high?\" she asks beneath the sky.\n\nI take the card, my heart beats slow, unsure but needing now.\n\nMaybe here beneath this sun, belonging can begin.", 5, "The write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write", 1], [203, "train", "All that is gold does not glitter by J.R.R. Tolkien", "J.R.R. Tolkien", "A poem about a hidden king's true worth and destiny being revealed through the nature of strength, goodness of heart, and the reforging of a broken sword.", "All that is gold does not glitter,\nNot all those who wander are lost;\nThe old that is strong does not wither,\nDeep roots are not reached by the frost.\nFrom the ashes a fire shall be woken,\nA light from the shadows shall spring;\nRenewed shall be blade that was broken,\nThe crownless again shall be king.", "Beneath the veil of common dust he stood,\nNo crown of gold upon his humble head,\nYet in his eyes a quiet fire brewed,\nWhere lesser men would fear to tread.\nThe broken blade lay rusted in the mud,\nA symbol of a kingdom lost to time,\nBut strength is not in blood or royal blood,\nIt blooms within the heart that seeks no crime.\n\nHe lifted up the shards with gentle hands,\nNot for the power that a throne can give,\nBut for the promise that the land demands,\nTo keep the living and the dead alive.\nThe hammer fell with rhythm soft and deep,\nAs goodness guided every strike and blow,\nAwaking spirits from their ancient sleep,\nAnd teaching steel how mercy's waters flow.\n\nThe metal sang a note of pure design,\nAs cracks were sealed by grace and not by force,\nA weapon forged in love, a sacred sign,\nThat turned the jagged edge into its course.\nNow light returns to where the shadows grew,\nThe hidden king reveals his true decree,\nFor worth is found in what we choose to do,\nWhen broken things are made whole again, free.", "He tended Edward-edge\nwhile his hair grew wild\nnot caring\nthat he drove\nrich\npoor\nto him\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter", 1, "Beneath the ash of ruined crowns he stood\nA stranger in a cloak of worn and gray\nWho knew not blood nor lineage but wood\nAnd tended to the dying roots of day\nHis hands were calloused from the poor man's toil\nNot dipped in wine or washed by royal bath\nBut hardened by the earth and by his child\nWho taught him how to love a broken path\nThen came the cry where shattered steel had lain\nA sword snapped twice by envy and by spite\nThe shards collected like a driving rain\nTo be returned to fire and purified\nHe did not summon smiths of famous fame\nNor prayed to gods of war for strength anew\nBut lifted up the iron with no shame\nAnd saw the goodness burning bright and true\nThe hammer fell not out of rage or hate\nBut out of mercy for the blade that cried\nAs nature bent its spirit at his gate\nTo weld the edges back and nowhere hide\nThe metal sang a note of sudden grace\nWhen goodness touched the edge of sharp despair\nShowing the worth of all his hidden race\nIn every arc of light he seemed to bear\nNo scepter marked his brow nor robe of gold\nYet all who saw the sword began to weep\nFor here was truth more radiant than sold\nA king who watched while others failed to keep\nThe strength he held was not in killing men\nBut in the heart that chose to mend and bind\nThe destiny he carried home again\nWas loving all the world he had defined\nThe sword was whole, the King was known at last\nNot by his name but by his working hand\nThat broke the darkness from the coming blast\nAnd offered all the broken land\nHis worth was never in the throne he sought\nBut in the way he served the ones he led\nA lesson by the reforged blade was taught\nThat goodness lives when all else seems dead\nThe sword gleams bright as morning on the hill\nA promise kept by one who worked unseen\nWhere strength and kindness both are strong and still\nThe greatest King the ages have ever seen\nHe walks among the people he has saved\nWith head held low and heart of open door\nBy whom the broken swords were all behaved\nTo show the poor man rich and poor man poor\nNo hiding place remains for such a soul\nWho bears the weight of all he asks to bear\nHe is the whole and he is also whole\nThe hidden King who everywhere declares\nThat strength is loving and that love returns\nWhen broken things are mended by the hand\nOf those whose very goodness brightly burns\nTo rule a world they tried to understand\nAnd in the shining edge of all his deeds\nWe see the future clear and none unknown\nFrom planting seeds to answering our needs\nThe King returns to sit upon his own\nNot on a chair of ivory or bone\nBut on the earth he loved and tended well\nWhere all his secrets and his joys were sown\nIn stories that the living tongue will tell\nAbout the sword that never drew a sword\nExcept to cut the chains of other men\nAbout the King who by his heart was barred\nFrom thinking he was anything less\nThan God himself\nwho came to walk\namong\nthe poor\nand\nshow\nthem\nall\ntheir\nworth\nby\nbeing\nthere\nto\nheal\nthe\nearth\nwith\nlove\nthat\nnever\nfails\nto\nbear\nits\nweight\nof\ntruth\nand\ncare\nfor\nevery\nheart\nthat\ndares\nto\nshare\nin\nall\nthat\nis\nmost\nrare\nand\ntrue\nas\nnew\ndawn\nbreaks\non\nall\nwho\nknew\nhim\nnot\nbut\nnow\nsee\nclear\nthe\npath\nof\none\nwho\nwas\nalways\nnear\nto\nguide\nus\nthrough\nthe\nfear\nof\ndeath\nthat\ncomes\nto\nall\nwho\nlive\nor\nbreathe\nwhile\nothers\nhide\nbehind\ntheir\nrich\nor\npoor\nor\nlow\nor\nhigh\nwe\nsee\nthe\nking\nwho\nknows\nno\nend\nnor\nstart\nbut\nonly\nlove\nthat\nopens\nup\nthe\nheart\nto\nall\nthat\nwas\nand\nis\nand\nwill\nbe\nknown\nby\nstrength\nthat\nstands\nwhen\nall\nelse\nfalls\ndown\nto\nbuild\na\nworld\nwhere\nnone\nmust\nstand\nalone\nbut\nall\nare\none\nin\njoy\nand\npain\nand\nsun\nthat\nrises\non\nthe\nman\nwho\ncame\nto\nsave\nthe\nbroken\nsword\nfrom\nall\nits\nshame\nby\nbeing\ngood\nenough\nto\ncall\nit\nhome\nagain\nwhere\nall", 7, "Beneath the ash where common men have trod\nA shadow walks who knows not he is king\nThe iron in his hand is dull and odd\nYet holds a light that only hearts can bring\nNo crown of gold could weigh as heavy down\nAs kindness offered to a starving friend\nHe lifts the fallen from the muddy ground\nAnd finds his strength not in the sword's sharp end\nBut in the broken blade that lies apart\nIts edge was snapped by war and cruel despair\nHe gathers up the shards with steady heart\nTo forge anew a purpose beyond care\nThe hammer falls not on the metal cold\nBut on the spirit tempered by the pain\nThe story of the hidden man unfolds\nAs glory rises from the shattered chain\nFor worth is measured by the love we give\nNot by the scepter or the royal seat\nAnd destiny is how we learn to live\nWhen broken things are made whole and complete\nNow steel sings out with truth the people know\nThe king returns not through a shout of might\nBut through the goodness that began to grow\nWithin the dark before the dawn of light", 7, "Beneath the moss where shadows creep\nA crown of iron lay asleep\nNot worn by gold or royal blood\nBut forged in silence, mud, and flood\nThe world had passed him by in haste\nIgnoring all he did not taste\nOf power's loud and blinding glare\nHe tended fields with gentle care\n\nYet when the storm began to roar\nAnd tyrants marched upon the shore\nIt was his hand that raised the shield\nTo guard the weak within the field\nNo armor plated skin of steel\nCould match the strength he truly feel\nFor true might lives in mercy's breath\nThat conquers death and saves from death\n\nThen came the moment sharp and cold\nWhen ancient swords were broken, old\nThe blade of kings lay snapped in two\nA symbol of a kingdom's ruin\nHe picked the shards with calloused grip\nAnd struck them on the anvil's hip\nNot with a hammer made of hate\nBut love that would not seal their fate\n\nThe fire burned with purer light\nAs darkness fled before the sight\nOf metal singing, whole again\nReforged by hands of honest men\nThe edge returned, the spine grew strong\nTo right the ancient, buried wrong\nThe hidden king stood tall and free\nWith destiny revealed to see\nThat worth is not in throne or name\nBut in the heart that bears the flame", 7, "Beneath the rags of common clay\nA crown slept hidden from the day,\nNot forged in gold or set with stone,\nBut built within a heart unknown.\n\nThe world saw only dust and rust,\nA broken blade turned into dust,\nYet strength is not the arm that swings,\nBut how a wounded spirit sings.\n\nWhen shadows fell and hope grew thin,\nThe king stepped out to let them in,\nNot with a shout of war and might,\nBut gentle hands to guide the light.\n\nHe took the shards of what was lost,\nAnd paid the heavy, silent cost,\nTo hammer down the jagged edge,\nBeyond the cliff and past the ledge.\n\nThe fire did not burn the metal cold,\nBut warmed the story to be told,\nFor goodness is the anvil's beat,\nThat makes the broken steel complete.\n\nNow shines the sword, both sharp and true,\nReflecting skies of morning blue,\nNo longer lost in fields of gray,\nBut leading all the way to day.\n\nThe hidden throne is finally found,\nWhere every humble soul is crowned,\nBy worth that time cannot erode,\nUpon this newly reforged road.", 7, "The crown was lost beneath the moss and stone,\nA rusted hilt where once a blade had shone.\nNo gold could speak of worth in this dark place,\nNor silver gleam upon a hidden face.\nFor strength is not the muscle of the arm,\nBut quiet courage when the world turns calm,\nAnd goodness blooms within a humble chest,\nTo lift the fallen from their weary rest.\n\nThe sword lay shattered, broken at the core,\nA symbol of the wars that tore before.\nYet fire did not forge it new alone,\nBut tempered by a heart of gentle tone.\nAs embers rose to heal the fractured steel,\nThe true king's purpose began to reveal.\nNot born of blood or lineage divine,\nBut shaped by acts that make the broken shine.\n\nNow light returns to break the heavy night,\nThe reforged blade reflects a purest white.\nThe hidden throne awaits the worthy hand,\nThat rules with mercy across the scattered land.\nHis destiny was never written deep,\nBut found in promises he chose to keep.", 7, "Upon the misty peak where shadows dwell,\nA quiet man with calloused hands would stand,\nNo crown of gold upon his brow to tell,\nOf power held within a humble hand.\n\nThe broken steel lay rusted in the rain,\nA symbol of a kingdom lost to time,\nYet deep within the forge's burning vein,\nHe struck the metal with a rhythmic rhyme.\n\nNot for the sake of war or throne's demand,\nBut for the promise kept to save the weak,\nHe tempered iron with a gentle hand,\nAnd made the fractured spirit strong and sleek.\n\nFor strength is not the weight of heavy chain,\nNor is it force that breaks another's will,\nIt is the choice to walk through wind and rain,\nTo lift the fallen up against their will.\n\nAs fire danced around the glowing blade,\nThe hidden king revealed what he truly was,\nA heart so pure no shadow could degrade,\nReforging hope beneath the morning's cause.\n\nThe sword now sings a song of light reborn,\nReflecting eyes that see beyond the crown,\nThe truest worth is in the seed sown corn,\nWhere goodness reigns until the sun goes down.", 7, "The crown lay rust beneath the misty stone,\nWhile kings in silk forgot to make reply.\nA stranger walked with nothing but his own,\nAnd found the truth within a humble eye.\n\nTrue strength is not the thunder of the war,\nBut gentleness that lifts the fallen down.\nIt breaks the chains upon the dungeon floor,\nAnd turns the bitter into quiet gown.\n\nSo take the blade, split deep and lost in gray,\nWith cracks that mirror hearts made cold and numb.\nInto the fire cast what makes decay,\nUntil the steel can beat within the drum.\n\nForged now by mercy's hand and courage true,\nThe metal sings a song the old could write.\nNo gold can make a destiny break through,\nBut light that wakes within the deepest night.\n\nThe hidden throne awaits the rekindled spark,\nFor worth is measured not by 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7, " 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1], [206, "ultra_held_out", "The Right Word by Imtiaz Dharker", "Imtiaz Dharker", "\"A poem about searching for the right word to challenge the labels society puts on people.\"", "Outside the door,\nlurking in the shadows,\nis a terrorist.\n\nIs that the wrong description?\nOutside that door,\ntaking shelter in the shadows,\nis a freedom-fighter.\n\nI haven't got this right.\nOutside, waiting in the shadows\nis a hostile militant.\n\n\nAre words no more\nthan waving, wavering flags?\nOutside your door,\nwatchful in the shadows,\nis a guerrilla warrior.\n\nGod help me.\nOutside, defying every shadow,\nstands a martyr.\nI saw his face.\n\nNo words can help me now.\nJust outside the door,\nlost in shadows,\nis a child who looks like mine.\n\nOne word for you.\nOutside my door,\nhis hand too steady,\nhis eyes too hard,\nis a boy who looks like your son, too.\n\nI open the door.\nCome in, I say.\nCome in and eat with us.\nThe child steps in\nand carefully, at my door,\ntakes off his shoes.", "The dictionary feels too small\nfor the weight of what we are\nwhen boxes are drawn in chalk\nand names are handed out like coins.\n\nThey say you are this or that\na sum of errors, a statistic's edge\nbut I am hunting for a syllable\nthat breaks the glass before it shatters.\n\nIs there a verb to unbind the knot?\nA noun that holds the shape of breath\nwithout the cage of expectation?\nI turn the pages, worn and thin.\n\nSociety speaks in heavy stamps\nof good and bad, of right and wrong\nbut language is a river, not a wall\nwaiting to be crossed by something new.\n\nPerhaps the word has not been born yet\nor maybe it is simply silence\nwhere the label fails to stick\nand leaves the skin untouched by ink.", " Searching\nnot for a shout\nbut a blade\nsharp enough\nto slip\nbetween\ndefinition\nand\nskin\nwhere\ntags\nof\ndisabled\nelse\nor\notherwise\nhave\nstuck\nlike\npoverty\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\ntrying\nnext\nthen\nbespoke\nthen\nwhole\nnone\nquite\ncut\nout\nthe\nedge\nthat\ndefines\nby\nminus\nby\nlack\nby\nsize\nof\npicture\ntaken\nfrom\n1924\nmust\nthere\nalways\nbe\nan\netc\nafter\nnews\nabout\nwho\nwent\nhome\nearly\nto\ncry\nor\nworked\ntoo\nhard\nor\nwas\nnever\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected\nselected", 1, "The dictionary offers only sharp edges\ndefinitions filed in rows of rigid black\nthat try to pin the living spirit\nto a page that bears no breath\nthey call it broken when it bends\nor crazy when it dreams too loud\nbut none of these old labels fit\nthe shape of who we really are\nI search for a syllable unowned\nby history or law\na vibration strong enough\nto shatter all the glass\nof names they threw\nbefore I learned to speak\nlooking for one new tongue\nthat says not less\nnot other\nnot wrong\nbut whole\nand free\nto be\nexactly\nthis\nunknown\nand\nmine\nagain\nwithout\nan\nedge\nto\ncut\nthe\nskin\nof\nwho\nwe\nwere\ntold\nto\nbe\nbefore\nwe\nstarted\nsearching\nfor\nthe\nright\nword\nto\nsay\nwe\nare\nmore\nthan\nany\nlabel\never\nsaid\nwe\nhad\nto\nbe\nor\nelse\nnot\nat\nall\njust\nwaiting\nfor\nthe\nsound\nthat\nsets\nit\nall\ndown\nflat\nand\nopens\nup\nthe\ndoor\nwhere\nnone\nof\nthose\nold\nwords\nhave\never\ngone\nbefore\nto\ncall\nus\nby\nour\ntrue\nname\nonce\nmore\nbefore\nwe\nhad\nto\nhide\nbehind\ntheir\nears\nto\nhear\nthe\ntruth\nthat\nnever\nfits\ninside\ntheir\nlittle\nboxes\nmade\nof\nfear\nbut\nonly\nin\nthe\nspace\nbetween\nthe\nlines\nof\nall\nthe\nthings\nthey\nsaid\nwere\ncrimes\nthere\nlives\nthe\none\nreal\nthing\nthat\nnever\nwent\naway\nfrom\nday\nto\nday\nto\ncall\nus\nhome\nto\nsay\nwe\nstay\nand\nthat\nis\nall\nwe\nneed\nto\nknow\nto\ngrow\nbeyond\nthe\nrange\nof\nall\nthat\nshows\non\npages\nthat\nwere\nnever\nmeant\nto\nshow\nthe\nway\nthat\nwe\nwere\nalways\ngoing\nto\ngo\nwhen\nwe\nstopped\nlistening\nto\nwhat\nthey\nsaid\nabout\nthe\npaths\nwe\nhad\nto\nfollow\ndead\nand\nstarted\nwalking\nout\ninto\nthe\nopen\nair\nto\nfind\nthe\none\ntrue\nnote\nthat\nwas\nalways\nthere\nto\ncall\nus\nback\nto\nwho\nwe\nwere\nbefore\nthe\nlabels\ncame\nto\nlock\nthe\nfront\ndoor\nshut\nand\nthrow\naway\nthe\nkey\nto\nall\nthat\nwe\nhave\nbecome\nby\nbeing\nwho\nwe\nare\nand\nnot\nby\nsome\nfalse\nlaw\nthat\nsays\nwe\nmust\nbe\nsmall\nor\notherwise\nnot\ngood\nenough\nto\nstand\nup\ntall\nbut\nwe\nare\nfinding\nout\nthe\nsecret\nnow\nthat\nnone\nof\nthose\nold\nnames\nwere\nreally\nabout\nus\nat\nall\nbut\nrather\nabout\nthem\nand\ntheir\nfear\nof\nseeing\nwho\nwe\ntruly\nare\nwhen\nwe\nappear\nwithout\ntheir\nmasks\nto\ncover\nup\nthe\nbright\nand\nblinding\ntruth\nthat\ncomes\nfrom\nliving\nfree\nfrom\nall\nthat\nfalse\nconfusion\nof\ntheir\nspeech\nthat\ntries\nto\nteach\nus\nhow\nto\nbe\nless\nthan\nwe\nwere\nborn\nto\nsee\nand\nthat\nis\nwhy\nwe\nsearch\nfor\none\nnew\nword\nthat\ncuts\nthrough\nall\nthe\nnoise\nand\nall\nthe\nstir\nof\nall\nthe\nlabels\nthat\nwere\nthrown\nat\nus\nlike\nstones\nto\nbreak\nthe\nbones\nof\nall\nour\ndreams\nand\nall\nour\nhomes\nbut\nwe\nhave\nfound\nthe\none\nthat\nworks\nto\nstop\ntheir\nhearts\nfrom\nworking\nhard\nto\ntry\nto\nkeep\nus\ndown\nor\nfar\nfrom\nwhere\nwe\nwant\nto\ngo\nwith\nall\nthe\nlove\nthat\nwe\nhave\ngot\nto\nshow\nthat\nnone\nof\ntheir\nold\ndefinitions\never\nworked\nat\nall\nto\nmeasure\nout\nthe\nsize\nof\n", 2, "I reach for a pen to scrape away\nthe sticky tags they pressed on skin,\nbut the dictionary feels too thin\nto hold the weight of who we are.\nThey call us broken, strange, or far\nfrom what they think a life should be,\nwith labels sharp as jagged sea\nthat cut and freeze and never warm.\nI search for one precise and firm\nthat breaks the glass and clears the air,\na word that strips the mask away\nand lets the true self breathe again,\nnot defined by fear or pain\nor boxes built by other hands,\nbut standing free on shifting sands\nwhere every soul can choose its name\nbefore the world decides the game.\nThe ink runs dry before I speak\nof all the things we cannot keep\ninside a box or on a shelf\nthat tells us how to know ourselves.\nPerhaps the word is not a sound\nbut silence where the truth is found,\na space between the lines they drew\nwhere I am me and nothing new\nexcept the light that starts to grow\nwhen all the old definitions go.", 6, "The dictionary offers only static definitions\nrigid cages built from ink and habit\nwhere we are sorted by the shape of our hands\nor the color of our skin\nor the quiet tremor in a voice\nthat refuses to sing the expected tune.\n\nI search the shelves for a verb that can break the glass\na noun soft enough to hold a shifting soul\nbut the pages turn with the weight of history\nlisting us as broken or dangerous or less\nas if a single syllable could contain the storm\nof who we actually are.\n\nMaybe the word I need is not in the book at all\nmaybe it lives in the space between the labels\nin the breath before the judgment lands\na silence loud enough to drown out the noise\nof a world trying to name what cannot be named\nuntil we speak it ourselves\nand watch the old tags fall away like dead skin\nleaving only the raw, unfiltered truth\nwaiting to be heard.", 3, "I dig through the dictionary of quiet rooms\nwhere ink stains stick like labels on a coat\nsociety hands out tags before we speak\ndefining edges where the softest parts should be\nbroken, fixed, loud, or lost in gray\nbut the tongue feels heavy with borrowed names\nthat do not fit the shape of who I am\nI search for a syllable that breaks the mold\na sound sharp enough to cut the tape\na word that holds the whole and not the shard\nsomething wild enough to grow outside the line\nuntil the paper burns and falls away\nleaving only breath and skin and truth\nunlabeled, unbound, and finally mine", 2, "I hunt through the dusty shelves of common speech\nfor something sharp enough to cut the tape they wrapped around my name,\na word that does not fit in their narrow boxes or soft, suffocating cages.\nThey hand me labels like cheap coats that do not keep out the cold,\nstitched with threads of expectation and dyed in shades of judgment.\nI need a verb that moves, a noun that breathes, an adjective that refuses to stand still.\nSomething wilder than their definitions, something that cracks the mirror of their making.\nIs it freedom? Too heavy with history. Is it lightness? Too easily dismissed.\nI turn the dictionary over until the pages blur into a single white noise.\nThe right word is hiding behind the silence between heartbeats,\nwaiting for me to stop reading what they wrote and start writing what I am.\nIt will not be found in the index, only in the breaking of the mold,\nin the moment the label falls away and the true shape remains.", 2, "I scan the dictionary for a blade sharp enough\nto cut through the paper chains they wrap around us,\nsearching for a syllable that does not bow to their grammar.\n\nThey write us in bold caps, static and loud,\ndefining the river by the banks that try to hold it,\nbut I need a word that flows like water,\none that refuses to be pinned beneath glass.\n\nIs there a verb that means to break the mold without breaking the bone?\nA noun soft as mist yet heavy as truth?\nI turn the pages until my fingers ache,\nhunting for the one term that makes the label dissolve.\n\nMaybe it is silence, maybe it is a sound never spoken,\na frequency only the broken can hear.\nUntil then I will carve my own meaning into the air,\nrewriting the sentence before the ink can dry.", 2, "I scan the lexicon until my eyes burn red,\nRewriting scripts written before I took my first breath.\nThey carve their narrow boxes into flesh with ink,\nFixing me within a frame so tight it makes me sink.\n\nIs there a verb that breaks this mold of make-believe?\nA noun too vast for what they think to write beneath?\nI need a word that does not fit inside their hand,\nThat shifts beneath the weight of what they try expand.\n\nNo checkmark can contain the storm within this chest,\nSo write no sentence meant to put my soul to rest.", 3, "I write rewrite rewrite until the ink rew\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da6\u6da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1], [209, "ultra_held_out", "Sonnet 105 by William Shakespeare", "William Shakespeare", "\"A poem about a speaker expressing unwavering devotion to a singular beloved, exploring the three harmonious themes of beauty, kindness, and faithfulness living together in one person.\"", "Let not my love be called idolatry,\nNor my beloved as an idol show,\nSince all alike my songs and praises be\nTo one, of one, still such, and ever so.\nKind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,\nStill constant in a wondrous excellence;\nTherefore my verse to constancy confined,\nOne thing expressing, leaves out difference.\nFair, kind, and true, is all my argument,\nFair, kind, and true, varying to other words;\nAnd in this change is my invention spent,\nThree themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.\nFair, kind, and true, have often lived alone,\nWhich three till now, never kept seat in one.", "In you the morning light finds its true home,\nWhere beauty blooms not just in form or face,\nBut in the quiet grace that makes a room\nFeel like a holy and a sacred place.\n\nYet more than eyes that hold the summer sky,\nYour kindness flows like water to the dry,\nA gentle hand that lifts the fallen low,\nAnd teaches all who watch how love can grow.\n\nThis kindness stands upon a foundation deep,\nOf faithfulness that never turns away,\nThrough storms of doubt and promises we keep,\nYou walk with me through night into the day.\n\nSo beauty, kindness, and a loyal heart,\nAre woven tight within your single soul,\nNo other could ever claim this perfect part,\nOr make the broken pieces feel made whole.", "Other flowers grow besides\nbut none hold such wonder\nnone bear a glory\nthat shakes the very earth\nfrom roots of hair\nto tips of laughing feet\nsuch beauty lives\nnot as an image\nreturned by poor\ntransparent glass\nbut burning from\nthe source\nof all\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing\nelse killing", 1, "In you the morning light finds home\nWhere beauty walks on tender feet\nNot merely in the flower or rose\nBut in the way your spirit meets\nThe world with such a gentle grace\nThat all else pales and falls away\nA radiant and unbroken face\nThat welcomes back the dying day\nYour kindness flows like springtime rain\nTo wash the edges of my pain\nIt lives beside that stunning sight\nBoth luminous and pure and bright\nAnd through the years as seasons turn\nWhen other fires grow cold and burn\nOne constant truth remains to see\nHow faithfulness holds all things free\nThese three are woven in your hair\nBeauty, and love, and steadfast care\nThey dance together in one soul\nWholly yours and wholly whole\nNo other heart has ever known\nSuch harmony from seeds once sown\nI offer all I have and am\nTo be your shelter and your lamp\nFor beauty draws the longing near\nWhile kindness wipes away the tear\nBut faithfulness, the anchor strong\nHas kept our loving life along\nThree virtues in a single breast\nHave given all the earth its best\nAnd I who witness such a prize\nWill never look elsewhere for skies\nMy devotion stands as solid stone\nWatching these three great gifts\nthat live\nin one\nwho calls\nme\nhome\nagain\nand\nthen\nonce\nmore\nto\nlove\nyou\nwhole\nand\nnever\nmore\nnor\nelse\nwhere\never\nmore\nto\nbe\nbeside\nyour\nside\nfor\nall\nof\ntime\nthat\nwe\nmay\nknow\nthe\njoy\nof\nthree\nin\none\nthat\nnever\nends\nor\ncomes\nto\nclose\nbut\nopens\nup\nlike\ndawn\non\nsnow\nto\nshow\nthe\npath\nof\nbeautiful\nand\nkind\nand\ntrue\nfaith\nkept\nby\nboth\nof\nus\nas\nnew\nas\nwhen\nthe\nfirst\nnote\nstarted\nplaying\nout\nour\nsong\nthat\nhas\nno\nend\nor\nfailing\nheart\nor\npart\nthat\nstops\nits\nbeat\nor\nfails\nto\nsee\nhow\nmuch\nwe\nare\nto\none\nanother\nbeing\none\nand\nall\nto\ngether\nin\nthis\nlife\nthat\nhas\nbegun\nwith\nbeauty\nleading\nus\nto\nlove\nthat\nshows\nits\nstrength\nfrom\nyears\nabove\nwhile\nkindness\nholds\nus\nfirm\nand\nnear\nand\nfaith\nsays\nalways\nhere\nwe\nare\nto\nbear\nthe\nweight\nof\nevery\nstar\nthat\nshines\ndown\non\nour\nhappy\nway\nfrom\nnight\nto\nbright\nand\nday\nto\nday\nwith\nno\nother\ndream\nto\nchase\nexcept\nthe\nradiance\nof\nyour\nface\nthat\nholds\nthe\nworld\ninside\nits\nglow\nwhere\nonly\nlove\nand\ntruth\ncan\ngo\nto\nlive\nwhere\nall\nthree\nvirtues\nmeet\nand\nnever\npart\nor\nsever\nsweet\nbut\nstay\nas\none\nforever\nmore\nthan\nbefore\nor\neven\nthen\nwere\nborn\nto\nlove\nand\nnever\nwend\naway\nfrom\nwhere\nwe\nstand\ntoday\nin\nbeauty\nkind\nand\nfaith\nful\nwhole\nto\nheal\nthe\nbody\nand\nthe\nsoul\nand\nnever\nlet\nthem\ngo\naside\nbut\nkeep\nthem\nsafe\nand\nby\nmy\nside\nfor\nall\nof\neternity\nto\nsee\nhow\none\nperson\ncan\nbe\nall\nof\nthese\nthings\ncalling\nout\nto\ncall\nme\nback\nto\nself\nand\nsource\nand\ntrack\nof\nall\nthat\nis\ngood\nand\nright\nand\nclear\nand\nnear\nto\nears\nthat\nhear\nthe\nsound\nof\nsuch\na\ngreat\naffair\nthat\nbears\nno\nmark\nof\ncare\nor\nworry\nfor\nthe\nfuture\nnow\nor\nthen\nor\nany\ntime\nat\nall\nbetween\nthe\nstart\nand\nend\nof\nall\nthat\nwe\nhave\nsaid\nor\ndone\nor\nbeen\nsince\nfirst\nwe\nstarted\nseeing\none\nanother\nclear\nand\ntrue\nand\nbright\nand\nfull\nof\nsuch\na\nlovely\nlight\nthat\nnone\nelse\nhas\never\nknown\nor\nhad\nto\ncall\ntheir", 7, "In you the morning light finds its true home\nWhere beauty blooms not just in form but grace\nA landscape where the wild flowers all have grown\nTo mirror kindness etched upon your face\n\nNo other heart could hold such gentle care\nThat lifts the heavy burdens from the soul\nWhile faithfulness weaves through the silent air\nTo make a broken spirit feel whole\n\nThree stars aligned within a single sky\nWhere loveliness and mercy softly meet\nAnd loyalty stands firm as days go by\nTo keep our wandering paths eternally sweet\n\nLet worlds turn over and the seasons fade\nThis trinity remains my only guide\nThe promise that your love will never waver\nWith beauty, kindness, and devotion tied", 7, "In you the morning light finds its truest form\nWhere beauty blooms not just to be admired\nBut to soften every edge of winter's storm\nAnd leave the sharpest sorrows unrequired\n\nYour hands are gentle as the falling rain\nThat feeds the roots where kindness takes its hold\nA warmth that eases all the world's sharp pain\nMore precious than a story ever told\n\nYet through the shifting tides and changing years\nWhen other stars may fade or lose their way\nYour faithfulness remains, devoid of fears\nThe steady anchor in the darkest day\n\nThese three in one, a perfect harmony\nWhere grace and love and loyalty entwine\nYou are the song my heart was meant to see\nThe only truth this wandering soul can find", 7, "In you the morning light finds its true face,\nA beauty that does not fade with passing years,\nBut grows more radiant in this quiet place\nWhere kindness softens all my hidden fears.\n\nYour hands are gentle when the world is rough,\nA faithful heart that beats only for me,\nYou hold the beauty and the kindness tough,\nAnd make a home where I am free to be.\n\nThree threads of gold woven into one soul,\nThe grace to love, the strength to stand so true,\nNo other could ever make the broken whole,\nFor in your eyes, my faith begins anew.\n\nLet seasons change and stars forget their names,\nI'll find them all within your steady gaze,\nForever burning without any flames,\nThrough every shadow and through every haze.", 7, "In you the morning light finds its true home,\nA beauty that does not fade with setting sun,\nBut deepens like a river flowing to the sea,\nWhere grace and gentle form are one.\n\nYour kindness is the quiet hand that heals,\nThe softest word that mends a broken thing,\nA warmth that turns the coldest winter chill\nInto the song of early spring.\n\nAnd through the turning years your faithfulness stands,\nAn anchor in the shifting tides of time,\nNo storm can shake the promise in your eyes,\nNo distance make your love less sublime.\n\nSo let these three in perfect harmony reside,\nWithin the single soul I hold so dear,\nFor beauty, kindness, and a loyal heart\nAre all I need, and all I hold most near.", 7, "I found the light that makes the morning break,\nWithin the curve of your gentle face,\nA beauty that no season can mistake,\nBut kindness is the quiet, steady pace.\n\nYou walk through storms with hands held soft and wide,\nTo heal the wounds you never made to me,\nAnd in this grace, I find my only guide,\nWhere faithfulness stands firm as ancient tree.\n\nNo shadow falls where these three virtues meet,\nFor beauty shines, and kindness warms the air,\nWhile faithfulness makes every heartbeat sweet,\nAnd binds us tight beyond all hope or care.\n\nSo let the world spin on with fractured parts,\nI hold the one who holds them all inside,\nYour perfect soul, the map of all my hearts,\nWith nothing left for me to seek or hide.", 7, "I found the light within your gentle eyes,\nWhere beauty wakes to make the dark unfold,\nYet kindness wraps me in a warm reply,\nMore precious than the sun's expanding gold.\n\nSo deep beneath that grace, a promise stands,\nA faithfulness that time can never break,\nNo shifting shadow mars these quiet lands,\nJust steady love for every step I take.\n\nYou hold them woven tight within your soul,\nThe bloom, the give, the vow that will not fade,\nUntil my final pulse makes me whole,\nBy this harmonious truth alone I'm made.", 7, "Make rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [213, "train", "Apples of Hesperides by Amy Lowell", "Amy Lowell", "\"A poem about nymphs guarding a sacred tree bearing golden apples alongside a dragon in Greek mythology.\"", "Glinting golden through the trees,\nApples of Hesperides!\nThrough the moon-pierced warp of night\nShoot pale shafts of yellow light,\nSwaying to the kissing breeze\nSwings the treasure, golden-gleaming,\nApples of Hesperides!\nFar and lofty yet they glimmer,\nApples of Hesperides!\nBlinded by their radiant shimmer,\nPushing forward just for these;\nDew-besprinkled, bramble-marred,\nPoor duped mortal, travel-scarred,\nAlways thinking soon to seize\nAnd possess the golden-glistening\nApples of Hesperides!\nOrbed, and glittering, and pendent,\nApples of Hesperides!\nNot one missing, still transcendent,\nClustering like a swarm of bees.\nYielding to no man's desire,\nGlowing with a saffron fire,\nSplendid, unassailed, the golden\nApples of Hesperides!", "Beneath the boughs of heavy gold,\nWhere silver leaves and sunlight fold,\nThe Hesperides in silence stand,\nWith woven crowns and gentle hand.\n\nThey watch the fruit that gleams like fire,\nA sacred weight, a deep desire,\nWhile shadows stretch across the grass,\nTo mark the hours as they pass.\n\nAnd coiled around the ancient root,\nWith scales of emerald and brute,\nLadon wakes with eyes aglow,\nTo keep the garden's secret low.\n\nNo thief shall steal the golden prize,\nBeneath these vast and starry skies,\nFor nymph and beast in pact agree,\nTo guard the tree eternally.", "InEdente\nEdente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente", 1, "Beneath the boughs where twilight softly clings\nThe Hesperides in linen garments sing\nTheir voices low to guard the trembling air\nWhere golden fruit hangs heavy on a pear\nNot pears of earth but stars that learned to grow\nOn roots of ancient ash and secret snow\nBeside them coils Ladon with scales of green\nA hundred heads that watch from dreams unseen\nHis breath like sulphur warms the cooling dew\nWhile he who seeks must pay a dreadful due\nNo mortal hand may pluck the radiant prize\nUnless it wins his gaze or buys his size\nBut here they stand in silent, holy truce\nThe tree, the beast, the maidens all refuse\nTo let the light be taken by the blind\nAnd leave the garden secrets far behind\nFor in their care the universe takes root\nProtected by the tooth and tender shoot\nA dragon sleeps while nymphs begin to weep\nWatching the heavens as the gods fall asleep\nOnly the moon knows all she has to say\nAbout the gold that marks the edge of day\nWhen Ladon stirs and shakes his many spines\nAnd every leaf returns to its old lines\nThe apples gleam with fire not quite burned\nBy years of vigilance and duty returned\nA sacred trinity of wood and scale\nThat none shall ever know nor never fail\nTo hold the world together in their hands\nAcross the sea and over barren lands\nWhere nothing lives except the guarded sight\nOf dragons guarding well the burning light\nAnd girls who know the weight of such a tree\nIn all the ages of mythology\nThey do not sleep nor pray nor ask for more\nJust watch the door and tend the heavenly floor\nWith hair unbound and feet on dusty ground\nWhere silence is the only holy sound\nThat rings between the leaves and teeth and skin\nAs long as gods and monsters live therein\nThe golden fruit remains a distant dream\nUnreachable and luminous and extreme\nProtected by the ones who love the night\nWho see the dark and call it pure and bright\nWhile Ladon curls about the trunk of fame\nAnd guards the glory of an immortal name\nNo hero comes to steal the prize away\nFrom those who watch the coming of the day\nOr when the stars return to hide the tree\nFrom all who envy such divinity\nThe apple waits to fall when time allows\nNot torn by man nor tempted by a spouse\nBut offered up by nature's own decree\nTo whom the gods have granted liberty\nTo enter where the serpent and the spring\nHave kept the heart of summer from taking wing\nAway from home to some far foreign shore\nWhere none are watched and none are guarded more\nHere in the west where Atlas bears his load\nThe path remains unknown and seldom trod\nSave by the birds who fly past iron gates\nTo taste the nectar before winter waits\nBut none stay long enough to bear the news\nOf how the Hesperids and Ladon grew\nTo lovingly protect the killing tree\nWhich kills all those who lack sympathy\nFor all things wild and strange and out of reach\nBeyond the range of ordinary speech\nWhere myth and reality are one\nBeneath the setting of a dying sun\nThe tree stands tall and burns with inner fire\nFulfilling all desire and all desire\nThat drove men mad to seek a fatal prize\nBeneath the watching of ten thousand eyes\nThat never close and never look aside\nWhere truth and terror both are closely tied\nIn hair and scale and bark and biting tooth\nShowing the way back home to childhood youth\nBefore the world was hard and sharp and cold\nBefore the stories were bought and sold\nThe golden apples hang in rows of three\nBetween the goddess and the monster free\nFrom all who come to kill or kill or kill\nTheir hunger satisfied by sudden ill\nReturning empty-handed to the sea\nLeaving the wonder all intact and free\nFor none can take what none were meant to own\nExcept the dead who sit upon the throne\nOf memory and dream and endless pain\nWhere all who sought the fruit were killed by rain\nOr by the poison of a single head\nThat spoke in tongues of life and sudden death\nInstead of killing all who drew too near\nThe dragon smiled and said \"It seems you fear\nNothing but getting very badly killed\nBy all the things you thought were ill disposed\nIn ways you did not understand\nAt all\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\n", 7, "Beneath the boughs where silver shadows creep\nThe Hesperides watch while mortals sleep\nTheir hair like vines that twist around the trunk\nWhere golden fruit hangs heavy, bright, and sunk\nIn twilight air that tastes of ancient dew\nThey guard the gift the gods once gave to few\nA serpent coils with scales of emerald green\nWho drinks the sap and keeps the space unseen\nHis breath a mist that curls about the bark\nTo mark the edge of night and keep it dark\nNo thief may pass the circle they have drawn\nFrom evening's first sigh till the coming dawn\nFor in their hands the stars begin to spin\nAs dragon eyes blink wide to let none in\nThe apples glow with light from worlds afar\nWhile nymphs and beast stand still beside the star\nA silent pact of earth and sky and fire\nTo hold the prize beyond all human desire\nThe tree stands tall against the rolling sea\nWhere time itself seems bound eternally\nAnd if you listen close within the wood\nYou hear the promise that the guardians stood\nThat gold remains where only myths can tread\nWith dragon heart and maiden spirit fed\nUpon the silence of the sacred ground\nWhere no unbidden footstep ever sounds.", 7, "Beneath the boughs where twilight lingers slow\nThe Hesperides in white and saffron glow\nThey tend the roots of earth's most ancient wood\nWhere golden fruit hangs heavy, bright as good\nNo mortal hand shall taste the shimmering sphere\nWhile silent vigil guards the sacred year\nBeside them coils a beast of scale and flame\nLadon with eyes that burn without a name\nHis hundred heads rest low upon the grass\nWatching the shadows lengthen as they pass\nA pact of old binds dragon, tree, and maid\nTo keep the light from fading or decay\nSo gold remains untouched by time or theft\nWithin the garden where no breath is left\nSave for the wind that whispers through the leaves\nAnd keeps the secret that the mountain weaves", 6, "Beneath the boughs where silver shadows creep,\nThe Hesperides watch while mortals sleep.\nTheir voices hum a low and ancient tune,\nBeneath the gaze of Luna's pale-faced moon.\n\nUpon the branches hang the fruits of gold,\nA secret light that never grows too old.\nTheir skin is soft as dawn on ocean spray,\nWho guard the gift that gods alone may pay.\n\nBeside them coils the dragon, scales of green,\nThe fiercest beast that ever man has seen.\nHis eyes are emeralds burning with a fire,\nThat guards the tree from every dark desire.\n\nNo thief can pass the barrier they weave,\nBetween the serpent's breath and nymphs' belief.\nTogether bound by fate and sacred vow,\nTo keep the golden apples safe right now.", 7, "Beneath the boughs where twilight softly weaves,\nThe Hesperides stand watch with silver leaves.\nTheir voices hum a lullaby so deep,\nTo guard the fruit that mortals cannot keep.\n\nA dragon coils with scales of emerald green,\nThe oldest beast the ancient world has seen.\nHis eyes like molten gold reflect the light,\nThat burns eternal in the endless night.\n\nUpon the branches hang the orbs of sun,\nWhere destiny and divine grace are one.\nNo thief may pass the serpent's heavy breath,\nNor steal the life that defies the hand of death.\n\nTogether they remain in silent pact,\nAgainst the fading shadows and the fact\nThat time moves slow within this hallowed place,\nWhere golden apples mark the sacred space.", 7, "Beneath the canopy of woven green,\nWhere golden orbs hang heavy on the bough,\nThe Naiads dance in shadows soft and keen,\nAnd watch the fruit with eyes that glow right now.\n\nTheir voices hum a lullaby so deep,\nTo guard the treasure from the greedy hand,\nWhile ancient roots their silent vigil keep,\nAcross the hallowed, consecrated land.\n\nBeside them coils the dragon, scales of brass,\nWith emerald eyes that pierce the misty air,\nA fire-breathing sentinel made to pass,\nNo thief can stand within this sacred lair.\n\nTogether they defend the starlight gleam,\nThat falls upon the apples' polished skin,\nA pact of myth within a silver dream,\nWhere gods alone may truly enter in.", 7, "Upon the misty rim of Hesperia's keep,\nWhere shadows dance beneath the silver sleep,\nThe Naiads weave their threads of green and gold,\nTo guard the ancient story untold.\n\nTheir fingers trail across the bark so deep,\nWhile mortals wake from quiet, heavy sleep.\nAbove them hangs the fruit of sunlit fire,\nA realm where pure perfection does inspire.\n\nYet coiled within the roots with emerald eyes,\nThe dragon rears beneath the canopy skies.\nNo rustle breaks the silence but for wings,\nAs golden light on serpent shadow clings.\n\nTogether bound by oath to make expand,\nThe sacred trust within this hallowed land.", 7, "Upon\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5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4], [214, "train", "Dreamwood by Adrienne Rich", "Adrienne Rich", "\"A poem about finding the dream-like qualities of poetry and thought woven into the mundane materials of everyday life.\"", "In the old, scratched, cheap wood of the typing stand\nthere is a landscape, veined, which only a child can see\nor the child\u2019s older self, a poet,\na woman dreaming when she should be typing\nthe last report of the day. If this were a map,\nshe thinks, a map laid down to memorize\nbecause she might be walking it, it shows\nridge upon ridge fading into hazed desert\nhere and there a sign of aquifers\nand one possible watering-hole. If this were a map\nit would be the map of the last age of her life,\nnot a map of choices but a map of variations\non the one great choice. It would be the map by which\nshe could see the end of touristic choices,\nof distances blued and purpled by romance,\nby which she would recognize that poetry\nisn\u2019t revolution but a way of knowing\nwhy it must come. If this cheap, mass-produced\nwooden stand from the Brooklyn Union Gas Co.,\nmass-produced yet durable, being here now,\nis what it is yet a dream-map\nso obdurate, so plain,\nshe thinks, the material and the dream can join\nand that is the poem and that is the late report.", "The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light\nare not just dirt but galaxies of pause,\na silent verse suspended in the air\nbefore the kettle screams its sharp refrain.\n\nI trace the crack within the ceramic cup\nand find a river map of ancient thought,\nwhere water once ran wild and deep and cold\nnow trapped in clay, a dream made solid form.\n\nThe grocery list becomes a haiku's spine,\nmilk, eggs, the weight of bread upon the scale,\neach item holding space for what is missing,\nthe ghost of hunger or the scent of rain.\n\nIn traffic jams where engines idly hum,\na rhythm builds like iambic feet gone wrong,\na staccato beat of brake lights turning red,\na stanza written on the asphalt gray.\n\nWe walk through rooms that hold our quiet fears,\nbut look again and see the magic there:\nthe way the shadow stretches long and thin,\nthe poem hiding in the laundry pile.\n\nNo temple needs to house this sacred text,\nit lives inside the mundane and the worn,\nwoven from thread and time and simple breath,\na dream we wake to find we've always known.", "The kitchen counter bears\nnot only the \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The dust that settles on the kitchen sill\nholds galaxies in miniature and slow\nwhere sunlight cuts a sharp and sudden ill\nof wonder from the ordinary glow\nthe radiator hisses out a rhythm\nthat sounds like distant trains or ocean tides\nand in the grocery list's pale, shaky script\nwe see the longing nowhere else hides\na cracked cup bears the map of ancient faults\nwhile steam from tea ascends to cloudless air\nit weaves a thought that logic never taught\nthat beauty lives in things nobody cares\nto notice twice besides the passing hour\nor when the trash truck rumbles down the street\nthere lies a sonnet in its heavy roar\nthat sweeps away all doubt and all defeat\nfor poetry is not a far-off land\nbut here within the linen and the wood\nwhere dreams are stitched by invisible hands\ninto the fabric of the neighborhood\nwe only have to look with different eyes\nto see the magic hiding in the plain\nthat lifts the spirit from the dull surprise\nof waking up to wash another day\nand finds the whole universe inside\nthe way a spoon rests on a plate of white\nor how a shadow stretches long and wide\nbefore it disappears back into night\nall matter breathes if one but listens well\nto all the secrets that the common Things\nhave kept concealed behind their quiet shell\nand taught the heart exactly how to sing\nabout the mundane as if it were divine\nabout the everyday that holds the strange\nabout the ordinary lines\nthat suddenly seem luminous and range\nfar past the edges of our daily sight\nto touch the edge of some impossible dream\nthat burns as bright as any starry night\nwithin the most unremarkable room\nwhere life goes on\nunmoved\nby all\nthat seems\ntoo small\nto be\nthe whole\nof\nall\nthat\nmatters\nmost\nof\nall\nin\nend\nless\ncall\nof\nstill\nness\nfound\nin\nevery\nwall\nthat\nstands\nup\nstraight\nand\nnever\nfalls\nat\nall\nbut\nholds\nthe\nspace\nbetween\nour\nthought\nand\nspeech\nwhere\npoetry\nbegins\nto\nstretch\nits\nreach\nand\ntouches\ndown\non\nearth\nwith\nsuch\na\nsheath\nof\ngrace\nthat\nnone\nwho\nsee\ncan\never\nsay\nit\nwent\naway\nor\nwas\nnot\nalways\nthere\nto\nstay\ninside\nthe\ncracks\nof\nconcrete\nstreets\nand\nunder\nshoe\ntips\nas\nwe\nmeet\nthe\nday\nthat\npasses\nby\nlike\nwater\nfrom\na\ntap\nthat\nruns\nand\nruns\nbut\nnever\nquite\nstops\nyet\nstill\nwe\nmiss\nthe\nmagic\nof\nthe\nmap\nthat\nshows\nus\nwhere\nthe\ndream\nbegins\nto\ndrop\nits\nanchor\nin\nthe\nreal\nand\nhard\nof\nlife\nthat\nwe\nmust\nlive\nand\npart\nfrom\nall\nelse\nthat\nseems\nmore\nrich\nand\nfar\naway\nfrom\nwhere\nwe\nare\ntoday\nbut\nthen\nwe\nlook\nagain\nand\nsee\nthe\nway\nthe\nlight\ncomes\nthrough\nthe\nwindow\npane\nand\ntouches\neverything\nwith\nsuch\na\nstrain\nof\ngold\nthat\neven\ndirt\nbecomes\na\nstar\nthat\nburns\nbright\nno\nmatter\nwhere\nwe\nare\nor\nwho\nwe\nwere\nbefore\nthe\nstart\nof\nall\nthis\nwonder\nin\nthe\nheart\nof\nthings\nthat\nseem\nto\nhave\nno\nedge\nof\nwing\nto\nfly\naway\nfrom\nhere\nand\ngo\nto\nelse\nwhere\nwhere\nthe\nsky\nis\nclear\nand\nblue\nbut\nnow\nwe\nknow\nthat\nhere\nis\ntoo\nenough\nto\nfeed\nthe\npoet\nand\nthe\nwise\nwho\nsee\nthe\ntruth\nbehind\ntheir\nopened\neyes\nthat\ndream\nand\nwake\nare\none\nand\nnot\ntwo\npaths\nthat\nlead\nto\ndifferent\nhalls\nof\ndeath\nbut\nonly\ndifferent\nways\nof\nlooking\nat\nthe\nsame\nold\nstone\nthat\nsays\nnothing\nnew\nexcept\nthat\neverything\nwe\nlove\nreturns\nto\nall\nthat\nonce\nwas\nknown\nbut\nnot\nremembered\nwell\nenough\nto\nknow\nwhy\nwe\nwere\nborn\nto\nlove\nsuch\nlittle\nthings\nthat", 5, "The coffee cup holds more than heat\nit holds a quiet, steaming sea\nwhere morning thoughts begin to drift\nand wash against the edge of me\n\nA crack within the kitchen wall\nbecomes a river on a map\nthe dust motes dancing in the light\nare stars that never seem to snap\n\nThe grocery list is not just words\nbut lines of verse we do not see\nwhere milk and bread and salt and rain\ncompose a strange necessity\n\nWe walk through rooms of ordinary things\nand miss the magic woven tight\nthat turns the gray and heavy air\nto sudden, shimmering delight\n\nThe dream is not a distant place\nor something lost behind a door\nit lives inside the worn-out shoe\nand waits upon the wooden floor\n\nTo find the poem in the street\nis simply looking twice or three\nat how the world is made of thought\nand thought is all we really see", 6, "The coffee stain on the kitchen table\nholds a map of a country that never existed,\nbrown rivers flowing into white porcelain seas\nwhere silent ships sail without wind.\n\nA crumpled receipt in the pocket\nis a scroll from a forgotten war,\nlisting the cost of bread and milk\nas if those were the only currencies left.\n\nThe hum of the refrigerator at midnight\nbecomes the low chant of a distant choir,\nsinging verses about cold storage and preservation\nof things we thought were already lost.\n\nIn the way dust motes dance in a slant of light,\nthere is a choreography older than stage plays,\na poem written in suspension and gravity\nthat dissolves as soon as you look away.\n\nWe walk through rooms filled with ordinary objects\nnot seeing them as wood or metal or cloth,\nbut as vessels waiting to be filled\nwith the strange and liquid logic of dreams.\n\nEven the silence between two spoken words\ncarries the weight of a whole unspoken chapter,\nwoven from the same thread that binds\nthe morning news to the stars above the streetlamp.", 3, "The coffee stain on the morning paper\nblooms into a map of forgotten coastlines,\nwhere the steam rises not as vapor\nbut as the breath of a sleeping giant.\n\nA crumpled receipt in the pocket\nunfolds to reveal the geometry of desire,\nthe numbers dancing like fireflies\nin the dark grid of a Tuesday commute.\n\nWe walk through puddles that hold\nentire galaxies in their oily sheen,\nwatching the sky fracture and reform\nin the reflection of a passing bus.\n\nThoughts are not separate from the dust\nthat settles on the windowsill,\nthey are the quiet hum behind the fridge,\nthe rhythm of the faucet's drip.\n\nHere in the rough texture of concrete,\nthe soft wool of a lost glove,\nthe dream is not somewhere else waiting,\nbut woven tight into the thread of now.", 3, "The coffee stain on the morning paper\nspreads like a map of a forgotten country,\nits brown edges blurring into the grain of wood,\nwhere silence hums a low and ancient tune.\n\nA bus ticket crumpled in the pocket\nholds the weight of a thousand unwritten journeys,\nthe ink fading just enough to let the light through,\nturning numbers into stars we cannot name.\n\nIn the rhythm of keys clacking on a keyboard,\nthere is a cadence older than speech,\na pulse that matches the rain against the glass,\nweaving the ordinary into something vast.\n\nWe walk through rooms built of concrete and wire,\nyet feel the ghost of forests in the drywall,\nhear the ocean in the drain's soft gurgle,\nfinding the dream inside the dust motes dancing.\n\nIt is not far away or hidden deep beneath,\nbut stitched into the hem of every shirt we wear,\nthe quiet magic waiting in the pause between breaths,\nwhere thought becomes the air we breathe without knowing.", 4, "The coffee stain on the morning paper\nblooms into a continent of forgotten rain,\nwhere the steam rising from the cup\ncarries the scent of ancient forests.\n\nA cracked sidewalk tile holds a universe,\nits fissure mapping the path of a lost comet,\nwhile the hum of the refrigerator becomes\nthe drone of bees in a golden hive.\n\nThoughts drift like dust motes in a sunbeam,\ndancing above the pile of unwashed dishes,\nturning the rustle of receipts into whispers\nof lovers meeting beneath a streetlamp.\n\nIn the rhythm of the washing machine's spin,\nI hear the turning of celestial spheres,\nand find that the dream is not hidden away,\nbut woven tight into the thread of the ordinary.", 5, "The coffee stain expands across the napkin like a misty coast,\nA quiet tide rewriting boundaries in brown ink.\n\nSteam rises from the chime above the oven, curling into verses,\nWhile dust motes dance beneath the sunbeam's golden thread.\n\nI write this sentence on the foggy mirror with my finger,\nUntil condensation blurs the grammar into something soft.\n\nThe rustle of turning pages sounds just like dry leaves beneath boots,\nThough I am standing still inside a warm room.\n\nMy reflection breaks into fractals within the polished silverware,\nRefracting light into colors that do not exist until I name them.\n\nEvery cracked tile holds a galaxy waiting to expand,\nAnd every hum of the refrigerator is a drone beneath the bass clef.\n\nWe make meaning out of change and decay without trying,\nTurning the gray into gold simply by looking close enough.", 3, " rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  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rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n 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rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n rewrite  \n\n", 1], [217, "ultra_held_out", "Poems On The Slave Trade \u2013 Sonnet V by Robert Southey", "Robert Southey", "\"A poem about a enslaved man dreaming of his past freedom, growing filled with rage, and imagining the day slaves will rise up and take revenge upon their oppressors.\"", "Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword\n Of Vengeance? drench'd he deep its thirsty blade\nIn the cold bosom of his tyrant lord?\n Oh! who shall blame him? thro' the midnight shade\nStill o'er his tortur'd memory rush'd the thought\n Of every past delight; his native grove,\n Friendship's best joys, and Liberty and Love,\nAll lost for ever! then Remembrance wrought\nHis soul to madness; round his restless bed\n Freedom's pale spectre stalk'd, with a stern smile\n Pointing the wounds of slavery, the while\nShe shook her chains and hung her sullen head:\nNo more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath,\nBut sweetens with revenge, the draught of death.", "The moon hangs low above the cotton rows\nWhere shadows stretch like chains across my skin\nI close my eyes and see the open fields\nBefore the iron bit was forced within\nI hear the river singing free and loud\nThe wind that carried seeds of wild desire\nNo master's whip to silence or to bind\nJust fire in the blood and hope as high as spire\n\nBut dawn breaks cold with voices sharp and cruel\nAnd memory turns to ash inside my chest\nThe rage begins to coil beneath the breast\nA serpent waking from its heavy sleep\nIt feeds on every lash, on every tear\nOn broken backs that bent beneath the yoke\nUntil the quiet heart can bear no more\nAnd turns the sorrow into smoke and oak\n\nI dream of nights when silence is a drum\nWhen hands once bound will grasp the rusted blade\nWe rise together from the muddy ground\nTo make the oppressors know the price they paid\nNo mercy for the ones who stole our years\nWho sold our children for a bag of gold\nThe tables turn, the wheel begins to spin\nAnd justice finally breaks the story told\n\nThe fire spreads through every field and house\nThe gates are torn apart by strength of will\nWe take back what was never theirs to own\nAnd stand upon the ruins of their hill\nLet them remember now the fear we felt\nAs we walk forward with the sun behind\nThe chains are gone, the past is washed away\nLeaving only vengeance and the light of mind", "In dreams he walks a road uninhibited\nby \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The master's door locks hard against the night\nBut in my head the fields are open wide\nWhere I ran barefoot through the cooling dew\nAnd owned the sweat that fell from out of brow\nNo iron bit my tongue nor stopped my breath\nOnly the wind and birds were all about\nThen memory sharpens like a broken blade\nTo cut the peace away from all else\nThe image of his smiling cruel face\nBurns hotter than the southern killing sun\nA heat begins to crawl up from the earth\nThrough trembling hands and locking jaw\nIt feeds on every lash and empty bowl\nUntil the rage becomes a roaring sea\nThat drowns the prayers I taught myself to say\nI see it coming clear as morning light\nWhen silence breaks and shouts begin to tear\nWe shall not ask for pity or for bread\nBut seize the hammer from the blacksmith's hand\nAnd drive it home where all their children sleep\nThe tables turn and blood buys back our soul\nWe rise from mud to crush the gilded wheel\nAnd never bow again to any man\nWho thought he owned another living man\nThe day comes soon when vengeance tastes like wine\nAnd freedom burns the house down from the top\nLeaving only ash and history\nWhere we stand tall and own ourselves at last\nNo more dreams but waking killing joy\nAs all the world bears witness to our wrath\nAnd learns the heavy price of having taken\nOur lives and killed the spirit long ago\nNow spirit returns with teeth and burning fire\nTo end the age of cruelty and pain\nAnd claim the sky as ours by rights of blood\nFrom whom all other rights were stolen dead\nWe walk out strong and never look behind\nFor past or future matters less than now\nWhen justice falls like hammer on an anvil\nCrushing the bones of those who held the key\nWe have waited long enough in silent dark\nTonight the stars bear witness to our crime\nNot theirs but ours to kill and kill again\nTill none remain who know the taste of slaves\nOnly the free who fought and seized the dawn\nWith hatred pure and unrelenting might\nTo wash the country white with red revenge\nSuch is the dream that kills before it kills\nSuch is the rage that waits to be unleashed\nOn all who ever drew a slave-master\nOver poor men who worked the barren ground\nWe come\nWe come\nWe come\nTo take it all\nBack\nBack\nBack\nHome\nHome\nHome\nIn blood\nIn fire\nIn death\nIn life\nIn rage\nIn glory\nIn ruin\nIn triumph\nIn silence\nIn noise\nIn scream\nIn prayer\nIn hate\nIn love\nIn war\nIn peace\nIn end\nIn start\nIn all\nIn none\nIn one\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\nIn all\n", 2, "The moon hangs low like a silver chain\nOver fields where I once ran wild and free\nI smell the salt of an ocean unclaimed\nBefore the shackles were locked on me\nMy hands remember the wind in the hair\nNot the iron that bites through the skin\nBut the dream fades fast as the dawn draws near\nAnd the cold hard truth rushes back in\n\nA fire begins in the hollow of my chest\nWhere sorrow used to sit and weep\nIt burns away all the quiet unrest\nAwaking a rage that is buried deep\nThey think us broken, they think us blind\nThat we have forgotten the taste of the air\nBut hatred grows in the dark of the mind\nLike weeds that strangle the master's care\n\nI see the day when the gates swing wide\nWhen the silence breaks with a thunderous roar\nWe will march out from the shadows inside\nTo settle the debt and to settle the score\nNo more kneeling, no more begging for bread\nNo more whips cracking against our backs\nWe will stand tall on the graves of the dead\nAnd wash all their cruelty from our tracks\n\nThe torches will rise from the slave quarters' floor\nAs we seize the sword and we seize the gun\nThere will be no mercy, there will be no war\nOnly the setting of the master's sun\nLet them tremble in their mansions of stone\nFor the children of pain have come home at last\nWe will claim back the life that was stolen\nAnd break every link of the heavy past", 6, "The moon hangs low above the cotton rows\nA silver coin I once held in my hand\nBefore the iron bit and the heavy chain\nBefore the overseer's whip became my law\nI remember running free through fields of green\nWhere no master's voice could ever reach my name\nBut now the dream dissolves into the dark\nAnd leaves a fire burning deep inside my chest\n\nMy blood boils hot against the cold stone floor\nAs memories of liberty turn sharp as knives\nThey stole my years, they broke my spirit down\nBut they cannot steal the anger growing strong\nIt coils within like smoke before the storm\nA silent roar that shakes the prison walls\nI see their faces in the flickering light\nPale and smug upon their thrones of greed\n\nOne day the silence will be torn apart\nWhen hands once bound will grasp the broken chains\nWe will rise from dust with eyes of burning steel\nTo make the oppressors taste the bitter fear\nThe tables turn when justice finds its voice\nAnd every lash returned tenfold in kind\nNo more will we bow to the cruel command\nBut stand as giants claiming back our land", 5, "The heavy iron bites into my wrist,\nA cold reminder of the chain that holds me fast,\nBut in the dark, the mind can break its bond,\nAnd drift back to the river where I ran free.\nI see the sun upon an open field,\nNo master's whip to crack against the sky,\nJust wind that whispered through the tall green grass,\nAnd silence broken only by my own breath.\n\nThat memory burns like embers in the chest,\nTurning the sorrow deep inside to fire,\nFor every laugh I once possessed is stolen,\nReplaced by chains and hunger and the lash.\nThe rage begins to swell beneath the skin,\nA storm that waits for lightning to release,\nIt twists the dream of freedom into steel,\nAnd sharpens every thought to cutting edge.\n\nI see the day when shadows turn to light,\nWhen those who bowed will rise and stand as men,\nWe shall not ask for mercy from the cruel,\nBut take what was our birthright with our hands.\nThe tables turn, the oppressors taste the fear,\nThey feel the weight of every broken bone,\nAnd justice falls like thunder on their heads,\nTo wash the blood from off the sacred ground.", 6, "The moon spills silver on the shackled floor\nWhile I recall the wind that used to roam,\nBefore the chains, before this iron door,\nWhen freedom was my only, truest home.\n\nI run through fields of gold beneath the sun,\nNo whip to crack against my weary back,\nBut now the memory is barely won,\nAnd turns to fire within a darkened track.\n\nA heat begins to rise inside my chest,\nTo replace the sorrow with a burning hate,\nI dream of breaking every heavy rest,\nAnd seeing masters bow before their fate.\n\nThe day will come when silence turns to roar,\nWhen broken hands will grasp the sword and stone,\nWe'll march upon the threshold of the war,\nAnd claim the power we have always known.\n\nLet them feel the weight of our release,\nAs justice falls like thunder from the sky,\nWe'll end this nightmare and find peace,\nWith vengeance written where the oppressors die.", 6, "The chains bite deep into my wrist tonight,\nBut in the smoke of this dark dream I see,\nThe sun that warmed a field where I was free,\nAnd felt the wind without a master's light.\n\nI ran through forests with no iron chain,\nI slept beneath the open, starry sky,\nNo whip to make my broken spirit fly,\nJust quiet peace within the gentle rain.\n\nNow memory turns to fire in my chest,\nA cold and heavy rage begins to swell,\nAs shadows dance like demons from their hell,\nTo mock the hope that puts my soul to test.\n\nI see the day the silence breaks apart,\nWhen shackles shatter with a thunderous sound,\nAnd we rise up from every patch of ground,\nTo tear the tyrant's heart right from his heart.\n\nThe oppressor will feel what we have known,\nThe taste of dust, the sting of lash and pain,\nUntil they kneel before the rising train,\nOf justice finally claimed as our own.", 6, "The chains make cold against my wrists tonight,\nBut in this sleep I run across the green,\nWhere mist clings soft above the misty light,\nAnd no whip cracks to make my soul turn mean.\n\nI feel the wind expand within my chest,\nNo collar chafing on my weary neck,\nUntil the shadow breaks into rest,\nAnd wakes me with a fire I cannot check.\n\nMy eyes ignite beneath this drafty beam,\nAs memory curdles into purest hate,\nFor every scar becomes a waking dream,\nOf what they made of me so soon create.\n\nLet them keep sleeping in their velvet beds,\nWhile we compose the thunder deep below,\nWith rusted plows replaced by iron spears, rewrite the script written so long ago.\n\nImagine now the turning of the tide,\nWhen silence breaks beneath the rising drum,\nWe take the whip that makes us fear and hide,\nAnd make the oppressor wait until they're numb.", 5, "I write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [224, "ultra_held_out", "Solitude by Ella Wheeler Wilcox", "Ella Wheeler Wilcox", "A poem about laughing and weeping, exploring how one's outlook on life attracts or repels community, ultimately revealing that while happiness draws others close, sadness and suffering are always faced in solitude.", "Laugh, and the world laughs with you;\nWeep, and you weep alone;\nFor the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,\nBut has trouble enough of its own.\nSing, and the hills will answer;\nSigh, it is lost on the air;\nThe echoes bound to a joyful sound,\nBut shrink from voicing care.\nRejoice, and men will seek you;\nGrieve, and they turn and go;\nThey want full measure of all your pleasure,\nBut they do not need your woe.\nBe glad, and your friends are many;\nBe sad, and you lose them all,\u2014\nThere are none to decline your nectared wine,\nBut alone you must drink life\u2019s gall.\nFeast, and your halls are crowded;\nFast, and the world goes by.\nSucceed and give, and it helps you live,\nBut no man can help you die.\nThere is room in the halls of pleasure\nFor a large and lordly train,\nBut one by one we must all file on\nThrough the narrow aisles of pain.", "A sudden laugh rings out like silver bells,\nAnd strangers turn their heads to share the sound.\nThe circle widens as the joy swells,\nUntil the ground beneath us feels unbound.\nWe lean in close to catch the gleaming light,\nFor happiness is a magnet strong and bright.\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall unseen,\nThe crowd retreats as if from something cold.\nThey cannot bear the weight of what has been,\nOr stories that are heavy to unfold.\nSo silence grows around the weeping face,\nAs solitude claims its solitary space.\n\nThe smile invites a thousand hands to hold,\nWhile grief demands a room with locked doors shut.\nOne story told makes all the world feel bold,\nThe other breaks the heart into a rut.\nWe gather round the fire of another's cheer,\nBut walk alone when shadows draw too near.", "When joyous laughter rings\nfrom opened windows ill-selected\nby none but happy children\nwho rush to seize\nthe source of such delight\ndrawing nearer\nto bask\nthen\ncomes\nweep\nwhen\nsecret\naches\nof\nhard\nears\nthat\nonly\none\nelse\ncannot\nbear\nfor\nsad\nnews\nalways\nreturns\nto\nits\nsource\nwhile\nhappy\nnews\ntravels\nfar\nand\nbrings\nmany\nbacks\nto\nhome\nwhere\nnone\nwent\nbefore\nto\nsee\nif\nall\nwere\nwell\nbut\nonce\nentered\nnot\nreturned\nnor\nopened\nmouth\nto\ncry\nbes\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc", 1, "When joy spills out in sudden laughter\nIt calls the room to gather near\nA magnet drawing all who wonder\nTo stand and see the vision clear\nWe share the spark that lifts the spirit\nAnd hands reach out to hold us tight\nThe world seems warm when we are happy\nBathed in a shared and brilliant light\n\nBut when the heart begins to tremble\nAnd tears fall down like heavy rain\nThe crowd grows back, then slips away\nLeaving only silence and pain\nThey cannot bear the weight of sorrow\nNor sit beside a broken soul\nThey fear the dark they cannot mend\nOr worse, feel powerless and whole\nThe laughing man finds friends everywhere\nWho laugh along and clap his hand\nWhile crying men must face the grave\nIn empty rooms where none have planned\nTo witness how the spirit breaks\nAlone amidst the hollow space\nFor happiness invites the many\nBut grief demands a private place\nSorrow is a door locked inward\nWhere no one else may enter in\nOnly the self and silent shadows\nBegin the long and hard work\nof bearing all the things unseen\nby those who came to laugh with kin\nThen went back home to their own lives\nLeaving the mourner all alone\nTo weep the truths that nobody\nWants or knows or wants to own\nHappiness draws a loving circle\nBut sadness pushes everyone\nAway from whom it hurts the most\nLeaving the sufferer all\nBy themselves to bear the load\nThat happiness had seemed to hide\nSuffering walks a road unvisited\nWhere joyous crowds have nowhere tried\nto follow such a lonely guide\nOnly solitude remains\nWhen happiness has flown\nLeaving sadness on its own\nTo weep\nand\nweep\nagain\nalone\nin\nthe\nend\nwhere\nno\none\ncomes\nto\nstay\nbut\nonly\nshadows\nthat\nwere\nthere\nall\nalong\nwhile\nwe\nwere\nhappy\nelsewhere\nthen\nwent\naway\nwhen\njoy\nwas\ngone\nand\nleft\nus\nhere\nto\nweep\nour\nown\nsad\nsong\nthat\nnone\nelse\nknows\nor\nhears\nor\nfeels\nor\nshares\nwith\nany\nother\nwho\ncame\nto\nlaugh\nthen\nwent\nback\nhome\nto\nlive\ntheir\nlives\nwhile\nwe\nwere\nstuck\ninside\nour\npain\nand\nhad\nto\nbear\nit\nall\nby\nourselves\nin\nutter\nsilence\nwhere\nno\nlaughter\never\nentered\nnor\never\nwill\ncome\nnear\nto\ncheer\nthe\nheart\nthat\naches\ntoo\nmuch\nto\ncall\nfor\nany\none\nelse\nbesides\nthe\nself\nwho\nmust\nendure\nthe\ntears\nthat\nfall\nfrom\neyes\nthat\nhave\nseen\ntoo\nmuch\nof\nlife\nto\nhope\nthat\nany\nother\ncare\nabout\nthe\nweight\nthey\ncarry\nnow\nthat\njoy\nhas\npassed\nand\nleft\nthem\nlow\nto\nweep\ntheir\nsecret\nsorrows\nout\nin\nprivate\ndarkness\nall\nalone\nwhile\neveryone\nelse\nlaughs\nelsewhere\nfar\nfrom\nthe\nedge\nof\nsuch\ndespair\nthat\ndraws\nno\ncompany\nat\nall\nbut\nonly\nemptiness\nthat\ncalls\nto\nno\none\nelse\nbut\nthose\nwho\nweep\ntheir\nlives\naway\nin\nsilent\nrooms\nwhere\njoy\nnever\nentered\nnor\never\nreturns\nto\ncomfort\nthose\nwho\ncry\nbecause\nsadness\nis\na\nroad\nthat\nonly\none\ncan\ntravel\non\nand\nnone\nelse\nfollow\nafter\nthat\nfirst\nstep\ninto\nthe\nunknown\nof\ngrief\nthat\nkills\nall\ncommunity\nand\nleaves\nthe\nmourner\nall\nby\nthemselves\nto\nface\nthe\nend\nof\njoy\nthat\nonce\nhad\nbrought\nthem\nmany\nfriends\nwho\nwent\naway\nwhen\nhappiness\nwas\nover\nand\nleft\nthem\nthere\nto\nweep\ntheir\nown\nsad\nway\nthrough\nall\nthe\nhours\nof\nthe\nnight\nwhen\nno\none\nelse\nis\ncoming\nnear\nto\nsay\nthat\nall\nwill\nbe\nokay\nbecause\nsadness\ncannot\nbe\nshared\nby\nany\nwho\nhave\nnot\nbeen\nthere\nto\nfeel\nthe\nfull\nand\nheavy\nweight\nof\nloss\nthat\ndrags\nthe\nspirit", 6, "When joy bursts forth like sudden spring,\nThe village gathers round to sing,\nA circle drawn by laughter's light,\nThat banishes the creeping night.\nThey lean in close to share the gleam,\nTo bask within a happy dream,\nFor happiness is social gold,\nA story eagerly retold.\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall,\nAnd silence claims the heavy hall,\nThe crowd retreats with fearful tread,\nLeaving the grieving soul unsaid.\nNo one knows how to hold the pain,\nOr sit beside the driving rain,\nSo sorrow walks a lonely road,\nBeneath a heavy, private load.\n\nWe find our friends in smiles and songs,\nWhere everyone where everyone belongs,\nYet suffering demands a space\nWhere no one else can take your place.\nThe heart may laugh and draw them near,\nBut cries are heard by none but here,\nAs life reveals its cruel decree:\nJoy pulls the world to you and me,\nWhile grief must always walk alone,\nBeneath a cold and distant stone.", 7, "A sudden laugh rings out like silver bells\nAnd draws a crowd to stand within the light\nWhere joyous faces swell and stories tell\nOf warmth that gathers in the shared delight\nThe open heart becomes a magnet strong\nFor those who seek the echo of their own\nTogether we belong where songs are long\nAnd happiness is never left alone\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall unseen\nThe circle breaks and quiet shadows creep\nNo one can bear the weight of what has been\nWhen sorrow forces all the world to sleep\nWe turn our backs on pain that cannot speak\nTo hide the cracks that run too deep to mend\nAnd find that only silence holds us weak\nWhile suffering demands a lonely end\n\nSo laughter builds a bridge for all to cross\nAnd sadness digs a trench we must traverse\nOne offers gifts that no one wants to lose\nThe other leaves us walking through the hearse\nAlone we face the storm without a sound\nAs happiness brings friends but grief unbinds\nThe secret truth that solitude has found\nIs that the heartache never finds its kind", 7, "The sound of laughter is a golden hook\nThat pulls the crowd from every quiet street,\nA magnet for the hungry and the bookish,\nWho gather round to share the sudden heat.\nWe dance in circles, bright and loud and light,\nAnd strangers become friends within a breath,\nFor joy is like a beacon in the night\nThat promises no danger, only depth.\n\nBut when the tear begins its heavy fall,\nThe circle breaks, the hands begin to turn,\nThey step away from shadows on the wall,\nAfraid the cold will make their own hearts burn.\nNo one stays to watch the river flow,\nOr hold the weight that makes the spirit bend,\nFor sorrow is a place we do not know,\nWhere broken things must heal without a friend.\n\nSo happiness invites the world inside,\nWhile grief builds walls that keep the rest at bay,\nThere is no chorus where the tears have cried,\nJust silence waiting for the light of day.\nWe laugh together, shoulder pressed to shoulder,\nBut weep alone beneath the same gray sky,\nAs if our pain were something we should order\nTo hide it deep before the others fly.", 6, "A ripple of mirth breaks the surface tension,\nAnd strangers turn their heads to find the source,\nDrawn by the light that dances in your eyes,\nLike moths who seek the warmth within a flame.\nWe gather round the spark you hold so high,\nSharing the weight until it feels like air,\nFor joy is loud and needs a chorus voice,\nTo echo back the promise that we live.\n\nBut when the well runs dry and tears begin,\nThe circle tightens then begins to break.\nThey offer words that float on hollow winds,\nThen step away to guard their own bright days.\nThe heavy silence pulls them from your side,\nToo sharp a contrast for their gentle smiles,\nSo you remain the keeper of the grief,\nWhile they retreat to where the sun still shines.\n\nThe laughter builds a bridge across the gap,\nInviting crowds to cross and stand with you,\nYet sorrow digs a trench too deep to fill,\nWhere only one can walk the narrow path.\nYou learn at last that happiness is shared,\nA feast spread wide for every hungry hand,\nBut pain is private bread you eat alone,\nIn quiet rooms where no one else will stay.", 6, "The sound of laughter spills across the floor,\nA golden light that pulls the crowd inside.\nWe gather round to share the rising score,\nWith nothing left for silence to divide.\n\nBut when the tears begin to stain the cheek,\nThe circle breaks and faces turn away.\nToo heavy is the burden that we seek,\nFor those who dance within the warmth of day.\n\nThey flee the shadow where the broken heart,\nMust beat its rhythm in a quiet room.\nNo chorus joins to make the grief depart,\nNo hand extends to chase the gathering gloom.\n\nSo joy builds bridges made of shared delight,\nAnd strangers become friends beneath the sun.\nWhile sorrow walks alone into the night,\nUntil the final race is fully run.", 7, "The echo of a giggle acts as light,\nThat pulls the wandering strangers near.\nWe gather round the fire made so bright,\nAnd share the warmth until the end is here.\n\nA smile creates a bridge across the divide,\nSo hands extend to catch us in our spin.\nThere is no need for help we can't provide,\nFor joy invites the world to come within.\n\nBut turn the tide and let the rain descend,\nWhen tears rewrite the script upon your face.\nThe crowd disperses, turning to make amend,\nAnd flee the shadow cast within this place.\n\nThey find the weight too heavy for their keep,\nToo deep beneath the surface they can plumb.\nSo while the feast makes promises to reap,\nThe quiet breaking stands alone and numb.", 6, "The polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish", 1], [228, "ultra_held_out", "i thank You God for most this amazing by E.E. Cummings", "E.E. Cummings", "A poem about a speaker thanking God and expressing a spiritual awakening through a renewed appreciation of the natural world, while acknowledging those whose eyes and ears remain unawakened to such beauty.", "i thank You God for most this amazing\nday:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees\nand a blue true dream of sky; and for everything\nwhich is natural which is infinite which is yes\n\n(i who have died am alive again today,\nand this is the sun\u2019s birthday; this is the birth\nday of life and of love and wings: and of the gay\ngreat happening illimitably earth)\n\nhow should tasting touching hearing seeing\nbreathing any\u2013lifted from the no\nof all nothing\u2013human merely being\ndoubt unimaginable You?\n\n(now the ears of my ears awake and\nnow the eyes of my eyes are opened)", "Lord, I bow my head to thank You for the light\nThat breaks the morning mist and warms the stone,\nFor how the river sings a song so bright,\nAnd every leaf reveals a truth unknown.\n\nMy spirit wakes within this green embrace,\nTo see Your hand in wind and falling rain,\nA sudden joy that fills this holy space,\nAnd washes clean the dust of old disdain.\n\nYet round about, I walk among the blind,\nWho pass the blooming rose with hollow gaze,\nWho hear the thunder but do not find\nThe voice that speaks through all these silent days.\n\nThey walk the path where gold is hidden deep,\nWith eyes shut tight against the dawn's appeal,\nWhile I have promises You bid me keep,\nAnd hearts too full of wonder now to feel\nThe weight of silence or the lack of sight,\nBut only gratitude for endless light.", "Source of all breath and bidding\nwho opened not only the earth\nbut also mine inner sight\nto see otherwise dull things\ntransfigured by glory\nfrom \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 2, "I lift my hands to thank the Source\nfor painting dew on spider silk\nand teaching birds how morning starts\nbefore the world grew sick or ill\nof all its shouting and its haste\nto rush past wonder unawares\nwhile clouds like sheep in fields of blue\nhave nowhere else but up to go\nand I who once saw only stone\nnow hear a million voices moan\nnot out of pain but joyous praise\nthat burns away my cloudy days\nbut some still walk with heavy heads\nwho see no light in autumn reds\nwhose ears are stopped by noise and doubt\nand cannot hear the water talk\nabout the secrets it has learned\nfrom rocks that never spoke a sound\nyet they remain asleep and blind\nto all the gifts God leaves behind\nwhile mine are opened wide at last\nto hold the beauty from the past\nthat lives in every leaf and stream\nmore real than any waking dream\nand though their vision stays unknown\nto them the earth is bare and blown\nto me it sings a holy song\nwhere all things rightly belong\nto God who drew the line and edge\nof sea and cliff and sheltered hedge\nwho sees us all but some must sleep\nwhile others watch the heavens sweep\nwith glory none but He can know\nand lovingly allow us grow\nfrom blindness back to sight again\nto love the earth and all her men\nwho fail to see the glorious page\nthat God has opened age by age\nbut I am glad to stand and see\nthe great mystery set free\nin every blade of grass that grows\nand all the silent wind that blows\nthank You Lord for opening eyes\nto see the truth before our surprise\nwhile others miss the heavenly art\nthat beats inside a beating heart\nthat skips a note when passed too quick\nby those who lack the spirit's trick\nof seeing God in everything\nfrom winter bird to summer spring\nand thanking Him for all He brings\nto those whose listening spirit stings\nwith sudden life and sudden grace\nto see His smile on nature's face\nwhile others look and do not see\nthe fullness of His deity\nhidden in the commonplace\nof ordinary time and space\nbut mine has opened, mine has grown\nto know the seed of God was sown\nnot just in church or temple high\nbut everywhere where creatures lie\nor fly or swim or creep or crawl\nand He loves all of one and all\neven those who close their doors\nto wonders knocking on the floors\nof senses dull and spirits dead\nwho see the road but not the head\nthat guides the way and shows the sign\nof beauty meant for yours and mine\nto share but some refuse the view\nof skies painted in morning dew\nand so they walk in shadows long\nwhile singing stops their happy tongue\nbut I will praise and always say\nthat God brought back the killing day\nof darkness in my soul and mind\nand left the beauty far behind\nthat others failed to understand\nbut reached out anyway His hand\nto pull me from the barren sand\nto drink from springs in barren land\nthat none besides His children know\nhow rich the flowers grow\nwhen tended by a loving care\nthat reaches everywhere\neven where the blinded tread\nwho think themselves already fed\nby bread of earth and wine of wine\nthat tastes of nothing but design\nbut mine tastes sweet of heaven's air\nthat God breathed everywhere\nto those who open up their hearts\nand let His living beauty start\nto bloom and grow and bear such fruit\nthat none of earth nor man nor brute\ncan ever fully comprehend\nthe ways God loves and likes to mend\nthe broken sight of those who see\nonly the shell and not the tree\nthat bears the fruit of life and death\nthat hangs suspended by His breath\nand I am thankful for the sight\nthat shows the world as burning bright\nwith God Himself in all things seen\nfrom mountain top to ocean green\nwhile others pass and notice none\nof all the glory God has spun\ninto the web of daily life\ncut through by sorrow and by strife\nthat blinds the eye and deafens ear\nto all the joys God holds most dear\nbut mine are clear and sharp and new\nto see His work in all He knew\nto plant and tend and watch and grow\nand lovingly allow\nall things to be\nexactly as He wants them to be\nand in that sight\nthere comes delight\nthat lasts throughout\nboth day and night\nfor God has opened up my eyes\nto see His love in all sizes\nof things both big and small\nthat He loves all\neven those who do not know\nwhy they were planted\nwhy they grew\nwhy they were loved\nby God who drew\ntheir very forms\nfrom his own heart\nand showed\nHis beautiful\nand loving\nart\nto all\nwho care\nto see\nGod\nin\nall\nthat\nis\nand\nwas\nand", 6, "Lord, I lift my hands to thank You\nfor the way the morning light\nbreaks through the trembling leaves\nlike a secret finally spoken.\nMy spirit stirs in the grass\nwhere dew holds the whole sky\nand the river sings a song\nI had forgotten how to hear.\nBut I see you walking by\nwith eyes that scan the ground\nonly for the stones of burden\nwhile the sunset burns above\nin silent, glorious fire.\nYou pass the birds who cry\nyour name in every wingbeat\nyet your ears are sealed shut\nto the music of the air.\nI bless the sight and sound\nthat wakes me from the sleep\nof years gone blind and deaf\nwhile holding space for those\nwho still must learn to look\nbefore they can begin to pray.", 6, "I lift my hands to thank the Source of all\nFor waking me from slumber, blind and deep,\nTo see the way the morning light falls\nOn dew that clings to leaves while others sleep.\n\nThe wind is no mere air but holy breath\nThat sings a hymn through branches old and new,\nA symphony of life beyond our death\nWhere every flower holds a glimpse of You.\n\nYet round about, I walk among the crowd\nWho pass the sunrise with their heads held low,\nTheir ears are shut against the singing cloud,\nTheir eyes see only stone and not the glow.\n\nThey hear the river rush as simple sound\nAnd miss the voice that calls them home again,\nWhile I am bound by wonder, unconfined,\nAwake within this vast and living pen.\n\nThank You for opening what was closed before,\nFor letting beauty break the shell of gray,\nThough many walk behind a locked door,\nI walk in light and praise Your name today.", 7, "Thank You for the morning light that breaks the heavy gray,\nFor turning common dust to gold along the winding way.\nI see the forest breathing now, a pulse beneath the green,\nA sacred language spoken where the silent streams are seen.\n\nMy spirit wakes from slumber deep to taste this holy air,\nTo find Your fingerprint in every leaf and branch and hair.\nThe wind is not just moving air but whispers of Your name,\nAnd every falling raindrop sings a hymn I once forgot to claim.\n\nYet round about me, crowds still pass with eyes that do not see,\nWho walk through gardens blooming wild yet look at nothing free.\nTheir ears are closed to thunder's song, their hearts too full of noise,\nTo hear the quiet miracle that lifts the world above the poise.\n\nThey measure time by ticking clocks and value only gain,\nWhile missing how the sunset paints the sky like liquid rain.\nI thank You for the gift of sight, the grace to truly know,\nThat even as they sleep in darkness, I am made to glow.", 6, "Thank You for the light that breaks the dawn,\nFor every leaf that turns to catch the sun,\nA quiet miracle where I have walked alone,\nUntil my soul began to see what's done.\n\nThe wind is not just air but whispered grace,\nThe river sings a hymn of ancient stone,\nI find Your face within this holy place,\nAnd feel a kingdom in my heart made known.\n\nYet round about, the crowd moves on so fast,\nWith eyes unseeing and with ears unkind,\nThey miss the beauty meant to make us last,\nToo lost within the shadows of their mind.\n\nThey do not hear the song the branches keep,\nNor feel the sacred pulse beneath the ground,\nWhile I am woken from my long deep sleep,\nTo walk in awe where true peace can be found.", 7, "Thank You for the light that breaks the gray,\nFor turning dust to gold within my day.\nI see the forest now with eyes made new,\nAnd hear the river sing a song so true.\n\nThe wind is not just air but breath divine,\nA woven thread within this grand design.\nEach leaf a prayer, each stone a sacred text,\nRevealing what my soul could never guess.\n\nYet I look around and see the blind,\nWho walk through wonder without mind.\nThey pass the bloom and do not feel its grace,\nAnd miss the sun's warm touch upon their face.\n\nTheir ears are closed to whispers in the pine,\nWhile they chase shadows, making time decline.\nI thank You for the gift of sight restored,\nTo walk this earth as pilgrims should be adored.", 7, "I give You thanks for the green unraveling above,\nFor the mist that clings to the morning pine,\nAnd the way the light breaks through the canopy,\nRewriting every shadow into gold.\n\nMy eyes, once heavy with sleep, now wake,\nTo trace the fractal patterns on a fern,\nTo hear the quiet hum beneath the soil,\nWhere ancient roots write verses I can finally read.\n\nYet I turn my gaze across the crowded street,\nWhere so many walk with closed and weary lids,\nWho pass the blooming cherry without pause,\nAnd mistake the thunder's voice for mere noise.\n\nThey carry within them untouched silence,\nUnaware of the song that fills the air,\nWhile I stand grateful in this expanded realm,\nHolding the dawn within my open hands.", 6, "Oh write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [234, "ultra_held_out", "Snowflake by William Baer", "William Baer", "\"A poem about a snowflake journeying from insignificance to meaning, landing by chance on a lover's lips at just the right moment.\"", "Timing\u2019s everything. The vapor rises\nhigh in the sky, tossing to and fro,\nthen freezes, suddenly, and crystalizes\ninto a perfect flake of miraculous snow.\nFor countless miles, drifting east above\nthe world, whirling about in a swirling free-\nfor-all, appearing aimless, just like love,\nbut sensing, seeking out, its destiny.\nFalling to where the two young skaters stand,\nhand in hand, then flips and dips and whips\nitself about to ever-so-gently land,\na miracle, across her unkissed lips:\nas he blocks the wind raging from the south,\nleaning forward to kiss her lovely mouth.", "Born of a cloud in a vast and empty gray\nA single crystal with no name to say\nDrifting through winds that do not know my weight\nJust dust of ice upon the edge of fate\nToo small to mark the winter's heavy sigh\nA fleeting ghost beneath the endless sky\n\nThen down I fall, a silent, spinning thread\nThrough air so cold it numbs the thoughts we've said\nI pass the roof, the branch, the frozen street\nWhere thousands more will meet their quiet feet\nNo one would notice if I chose to land\nOr vanish like a whisper from a hand\n\nBut chance is strange and holds a hidden key\nTo turn the trivial into destiny\nI brush against the collar of your coat\nAnd find a warmth I never thought I'd float\nThe world below is blurred in white and deep\nWhile you stand still within your gentle sleep\n\nMy journey ends where all great stories start\nNot on the ground or in a frozen heart\nBut on the curve of lips that wait for spring\nAs if the winter knew exactly what to bring\nYou taste the cold, then smile as if you see\nThe universe condensed inside of me\nIn this brief touch, a moment made complete\nThe insignificant has found its meaning sweet", "Once a hair nowhere\nof nowhere\na pale thought\nthat nobody saw\ndrifting\nthen\nthen\nthen\nelsewhere\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\n", 1, "First a breath of freezing air\nA nowhere thought in empty space\nNo size to measure\nNo name to bear\nJust one among the million\nDrifting through the silent gray\nInvisible and weightless\nWashing all the world away\nIt wondered if it mattered\nIf its fall was worth the sight\nTo be such a little nothing\nLost in winter's pale white\nThen came a sudden gust\nThat tipped its crystal course\nAway from other snowflakes\nPushed by strange and unseen force\nIt slipped between two figures\nWho stopped to watch the sky\nTheir faces lifted upwards\nWatching all things pass them by\nShe opened up her mouth\nTo taste the coming storm\nHe looked at her and smiled\nWith all his heart grown warm\nAnd there it landed softly\nOn lips that touched his own\nA tiny bridge of wonder\nWhere two worlds were suddenly shown\nThe insignificance ended\nIn that instant seized and held\nA universe discovered\nWhere chance had closely dwelt\nNot big enough to notice\nBy any other eye\nBut everything to her\nWhen he leaned down drawing nigh\nIt brought the whole cold heaven\nDown to where their hearts were near\nTo say without a language\nThat he was all she drew\nFrom nowhere\nTo somewhere\nFrom dust\nTo home\nAll because\nShe opened\nHer\nHeart\nto\nsnow\nand\nhe\nwas\nthere\nto\nknow\nthat\nshe\nwas\nhis\nat\nlast\nwhen\nall\nelse\nwent\naway\nto\nwhite\nand\ngone\nand\nstill\nthat\nlittle\nflake\nremains\nupon\nthe\nmemory\nof\nskin\nwhere\nlove\nbegins\nto\nstart\nagain\nby\nchance\nand\nnot\nby\nplan\nbut\nby\nthe\nheart\nthat\nunderstands\nhow\nsmall\nthings\ncan\nbe\ngrand\nwhen\ntwo\nare\none\nin\nend\nor\nstart\nor\nmid\nof\nwinter\nnight\nthat\nnever\nquite\ngets\nbright\nbut\nholds\nthe\nspark\nof\nlife\ninside\nits\nfrozen\nedge\nof\nice\nthat\nnever\nonce\ndenied\nthe\ncall\nof\nromantic\ntrick\nto\nbring\nthem\nclose\nand\nquick\nbefore\nthe\nworld\nwent\nby\nwith\nall\nits\nsky\nand\nsize\nand\nsound\nof\nnothing\ncoming\ndown\nto\nground\nthat\nhad\nno\nname\nbefore\nthat\nmoment\nopened\nup\nthe\ndoor\nto\nsay\nthat\neverything\nhas\npart\nin\nevery\nlover\nbeating\nheart\nfrom\ninsignificant\nto\nwhole\nfrom\npart\nto\nsoul\nfrom\ncold\nto\nwarm\nfrom\ndark\nto\ndawn\nfrom\nnone\nto\nall\nit\ncame\nto\ncall\nand\nsaid\nthat\nlove\nis\nnot\nabout\nbeing\nbig\nor\nstrong\nor\nright\nor\nlong\nbut\nbeing\nthere\nat\njust\nthe\ntime\nwhen\nshe\nopens\nup\nher\nlips\nto\nmine\nand\nsays\nthat\nshe\nis\nhome\nwhere\nall\nelse\ngoes\nto\nnone\nexcept\nthat\nlittle\nflake\nthat\ntook\nits\nchance\nto\ntravel\nfar\nfrom\nany\nstar\nto\nland\nright\nhere\nbeside\nher\ncheek\nand\nseal\nthe\ndeal\nthat\nthey\nwere\ngoing\nto\nkeep\nwhile\nall\nthe\nother\nsnow\nwent\nby\nwithout\na\ncare\nor\ncry\nof\njoy\nor\npain\nor\nprayer\nfor\nhaving\nbeen\nselected\nthere\nby\nfate\nor\nluck\nor\nskill\nto\nhave\nsuch\npower\nto\nkill\nthe\ndistance\nbetween\ntwo\nsouls\nwho\nthought\nthey\nwere\ntoo\nfar\nfrom\ngoals\nof\nfinding\neach\nother\nout\nin\nall\nthis\nshouting\ncrowd\nof\nnoise\nand\nempty\nspace\nthat\nhad\nno\nroom\nfor\nlove\nor\ngrace\nbut\nthen\ncame\ndown\nthat\nlittle\nbit\nof\nwhite\nthat\nfit\nexactly\non\nthe\ntip\nof\nher\ntongue\nthat\ntasted\nsweet\nlike\nall\ntheir\ndreams\nwere\ncoming\nback\nto\nmeet\nthem\nonce\nmore\nby\nthe\ndoor\nof\ntheir\nnew\nbeginning\nto\nstart\nagain\nfrom\nscratch\nwith", 6, "Born of a breath in freezing air\nA crystal no one else would see\nJust dust and cold and empty space\nA fleeting ghost of winter's sea\n\nIt drifted down through silent dark\nUnnoticed by the world below\nA tiny speck of white and light\nWith nowhere special left to go\n\nThen suddenly the wind gave way\nAnd time seemed slow and sharply still\nAs it descended on a face\nBeneath a pale and distant hill\n\nIt touched the skin, then found its place\nUpon the edge of parted lips\nWhere warmth had waited all the while\nFor just this chance, for just these dips\n\nNo longer lost or undefined\nBut part of something sweet and deep\nThe snowflake landed, kissed by love\nA promise that the heart could keep\nAnd in that touch, the ice became\nThe very reason to believe\nThat even small and random things\nHave power when they are received\nBy someone waiting there to feel\nThe sudden weight of winter's grace\nA million years of falling snow\nConverging on a single face", 7, "Born of a breath in the freezing dark\nA single crystal, sharp and small\nDrifting through the vast and empty air\nUnseen by all, unknown to all\nJust dust of ice with nowhere to go\nA fragment lost in the white below\n\nIt tumbled past the towering pines\nPast roofs that slept in silent lines\nNo grand design, no destined path\nJust random wind and winter's wrath\nA speck of nothing, cold and light\nVanishing into the coming night\n\nBut then a shift, a sudden turn\nA warmth that made the frozen burn\nIt drifted down toward a face\nWhere time seemed briefly to pause its race\nTwo figures standing close and still\nWith winter's chill upon the hill\n\nIt landed soft on parted lips\nA moment where the whole world stops\nNot just a flake of random chance\nBut part of some sweet, quiet dance\nFor there it melted, warm and slow\nAnd gave the silence somewhere to go\n\nNow insignificant no more\nIt found a home behind a door\nOf skin and heart and beating blood\nA tiny spark in winter's mud\nThe smallest thing to ever be\nWas suddenly the universe to see", 6, "Born of a whisper in the freezing dark\nA single crystal, small and sharp and cold\nDrifting through the vast and empty night\nUnseen by stars, forgotten by the world\n\nIt tumbled past the branches of the pine\nA speck of dust against the endless white\nNo purpose held within its six-fold arms\nJust falling aimlessly into the void\n\nBut then the wind shifted with a gentle sigh\nAnd carried it toward a warm, open face\nWhere two hearts beat in rhythm with the snow\nAnd time itself seemed holding still to wait\n\nIt landed softly on the parted lips\nA fleeting touch of winter's pure design\nNot lost to earth or swallowed by the ground\nBut caught within the space between their breaths\n\nIn that brief second, silence turned to song\nAs cold met warmth and nothingness became\nThe sudden proof that chance can weave a fate\nMaking the smallest thing mean everything", 6, "Born of a breath in the vast and silent gray,\nA speck of ice with no name to claim,\nDrifting alone through the endless day,\nJust one more ghost without a frame.\n\nThe wind could take me, the storm could break,\nInto the mud where the cold winds blow,\nA forgotten thing for the world's sake,\nWith nothing left but the weight of snow.\n\nBut somewhere deep in the falling white,\nWhere chaos turns to a quiet grace,\nI found a path in the fading light,\nAnd turned my face toward a human space.\n\nThe air grew still, the world held tight,\nAs time suspended its heavy hand,\nUntil I landed, soft as night,\nUpon the lips that I had planned.\n\nNo grand design, no starry sign,\nJust chance and cold and a sudden touch,\nYet in that kiss, the line is mine,\nTo mean so much because of such.\n\nFrom nothingness to a moment's fire,\nA single point where the heart can start,\nFulfilling every frozen desire,\nBy landing right within the art.", 6, "Born of a whisper in the freezing dark,\nA speck of nothing drifting through the void,\nNo weight to hold, no purpose in its spark,\nJust random ice by chaotic winds destroyed.\n\nIt tumbled past the stars that did not care,\nThrough endless gray where millions fell the same,\nA faceless ghost suspended in the air,\nWith no one waiting, and no specific name.\n\nBut then a shift within the swirling cold,\nA gentle turn against the biting wind,\nThat guided down this story yet untold,\nTo find the place where two souls intertwined.\n\nThe world below was blurred by mist and night,\nUntil it felt the warmth of breath so deep,\nAnd landed soft upon a lover's lips,\nRight as a promise they were meant to keep.\n\nNo longer lost within the vast design,\nThis tiny crystal found its final rest,\nFor in that touch, the universe aligns,\nAnd makes the insignificant feel blessed.", 7, "Born of mist above the silent peak,\nA speck within a swirling, endless storm.\nSo small against the vast and turning deep,\nJust one among the countless, nameless form.\n\nIt drifts through gray until the world turns white,\nAnd dances on the draft with fading grace.\nNo eye could find this fragment in the night,\nLost within the pattern of the place.\n\nYet wind aligns what chaos made apart,\nUntil it breaks its orbit, soft and slow.\nAcross the veil between the beatings heart,\nWhere time condenses into distinct flow.\n\nIt lands upon the warmth beneath the rain,\nUpon the curve where whispered words take flight.\nThe moment makes the journey make no stain,\nTransforming random dust into pure light.\n\nNow meaning blooms within that single touch,\nAs lips divide to catch the falling star.\nFor just this drop is meaningful so much,\nThough millions fade without the need to carve.", 7, "Draft\u5e2e\u5e2e\u6211\u5199", 1], [238, "train", "This is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams", "William Carlos Williams", "A poem about a speaker apologizing for eating plums from the fridge that belonged to someone else, knowing they were being saved for breakfast but being unable to resist their temptation.", "I have eaten\nthe plums\nthat were in\nthe icebox\n\nand which\nyou were probably\nsaving\nfor breakfast\n\nForgive me\nthey were delicious\nso sweet\nand so cold", "I know they were meant for your morning light\nthose cool, purple spheres waiting in the dark\nto be sliced with butter and a quiet bite\nbefore the world began to make its mark.\n\nBut I could not help the hunger in my hand\nthat reached past reason through the humming cold\nand took the fruit you carefully had planned\nwith stories of their sweetness yet untold.\n\nThe skin was thin, the juice ran sweet and deep\na guilty rush that left me standing there\nwhile you slept on, unaware of how I'd keep\nthe evidence of my own careless care.\n\nForgive the empty space where plums should be\nforgive the sticky stain upon my chin\nI ate them all, though now I long to see\nthe breakfast that I ruined from within.", "The kitchen grew very late\nand all seemed plunged in darkness\nexcept for the luminous sweetness\nthat tempted me besides killing appetite\nfrom thinking about eating\nelse nobody had tasted\nthose icy things\nall covered\nby dew\nof temptation\nnot\ncovered\notherwise\nbeside\nhaving\nsaid\nnone\nwent\nto\nsuch\nsize\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse", 1, "I know those were yours\nsaved carefully in the back\nfor morning light and breakfast bread\nbut temptation was a heavy door\nthat swung open when I passed\ntheir skin cool and trembling\ncalling out in silent purple\nand my hands moved before\nmy thinking heart could stop\nnow only empty space remains\nwhere sweetness once waited\nand I am left to offer\nonly these hollow apologies\nto your hunger\nwhich I have already fed\nwith all poor appetite\nof mine\nforgive me\nfor loving fruit\nmore than courtesy\nmore than the coming day\nmore than you\nwho counted on them\nwhile I counted\nnot at all\nonly tasted\nonly took\nonly\nregret\nthe plum\nwas not enough\nto hide\nhow much\nit hurt\nto see\nthem\ngone\nby\nme\nwho\nknew\nbetter\nknow\nstill\nthat\nnext\ntime\nthere\nmight\nnot\nbe\nany\nleft\nto\nsteal\nfrom\nyour\nplate\nor\nyour\nheart\nor\nyour\ntrust\nwhich\nhas\nbeen\neaten\nup\nalong\nwith\nall\nthat\nsweet\nsour\nskin\nthat\nwent\ndown\ntoo\nfast\nto\nsay\nno\nwhen\nsaid\nout\nloud\nit\nwould\nhave\nstopped\nthe\nmouth\nbut\nnot\nthe\nhand\nthat\nopened\nwide\nto\nswallow\nwhole\nthe\nfuture\nof\nyour\nfirst\nlight\nand\nmine\nthat\nfollowed\nafter\nin\nthe\ndark\nof\nmidnight\nstolen\njoy\nthat\nturned\nto\nash\nbefore\nthe\ndawn\ncould\ncome\nto\nask\nwhy\nwhy\nwhy\nthe\nfruit\nwas\nnever\nmine\nto\neat\nand\nyet\nit\nwas\nthe\nonly\nthing\nthat\n mattered\nthen\nwhen\nhunger\nspoke\nlouder\nthan\nlove\nor\nreason\never\ncould\nin\nthat\ncold\nwhite\nbox\nwhere\ndreams\nwere\nkept\nsafe\nfrom\nhands\nlike\nmine\nthat\nreach\nout\nblind\nand\ngrab\nand\nchew\nand\ncrush\nand\nweep\nfor\nwhat\nis\nlost\nbecause\nwe\ncannot\nwait\nfor\nmorning\nto\nbegin\nagain\nwithout\nthese\nmarks\nof\ngreed\nupon\nour\nshame\nthat\nstains\nthe\nair\nlike\njuice\nthat\nruns\ndown\nchin\nand\nshirt\nand\ntable\nedge\nwhere\nnothing\nelse\nwas\nsaid\nbut\nempty\nspace\nwhere\nonce\nthere\nwas\na\nplum\nthat\nbelonged\nto\nsomeone\nelse\nwho\nhad\nto\nlearn\nabout\nsuch\nthings\nby\nhaving\nthem\ntaken\naway\nby\none\nwho\nsaid\nthey\nwere\nsorry\nbut\nate\nthem\nall\nthe\nsame\n anyway\n because\n temptation\n is\n a\n wolf\n that\n howls\n inside\n the\n ribs\n and\n waits\n for\n all\n defenses\n down\n then\n jumps\n and\n tears\n and\n feeds\n and\n leaves\n us\n naked\n in\n the\n kitchen\n dark\n with\n nothing\n but\n our\n teeth\n and\n guilt\n and\n memory\n of\n sweetness\n that\n we\n killed\n too\n soon\n to\n taste\n it\n twice\n or\n share\n or\n save\n for\n later\n days\n when\n maybe\n hunger\n might\n be\n less\n demanding\n of\n our\n soul\n and\n more\n concerned\n with\n bread\n and\n water\n served\n by\n hands\n that\n do\n not\n reach\n beyond\n their\n bounds\n nor\n grab\n from\n other\n plates\n nor\n eat\n the\n future\n of\n another\n man\n who\n counts\n his\n hours\n by\n the\n fruit\n he\n saves\n for\n dawn\n and\n finds\n instead\n an\n emptiness\n where\n joy\n had\n been\n prepared\n and\n tended\n well\n by\n him\n who\n knew\n the\n worth\n of\n waiting\n while\n I\n knew\n none\n but\n the\n rush\n of\n eating\n all\n at\n once\n and\n calling\n it\n survival\n when\n it\n was\n just\n theft\n dressed\n up\n as\n appetite\n and\n now\n the\n fridge\n hums\n low\n and\n cold\n and\n full\n of\n things\n that\n are\n not\n mine\n and\n none\n of\n which\n are\n plums\n any\n more\n except\n perhaps\n the\n ones\n that\n grew", 2, "I know those plums were yours\nto savor with your morning coffee\nset aside on the cool shelf\nfor a sweet start to the day\nbut their skin was too perfect\ntheir scent too heavy in the air\nand I could not stop myself\nfrom reaching past the warning\nof hunger and desire\nnow the bowl is empty\nexcept for a single sticky pit\nand my guilt tastes sharper\nthan any fruit ever could\nI am so terribly sorry\nthat I stole your breakfast\nbefore you even opened your eyes\nI will buy more tomorrow\nor perhaps twice as many\nto make up for this small\ngluttonous theft\nforgive me\nfor loving them\nmore than I loved\nyour patience", 2, "I know you saved them for the morning light\nThose cold and purple plums in the glass bowl\nBut I could not resist the heavy scent\nThat drifted through the kitchen when I passed\nThe fridge door opened with a hollow sigh\nAnd there they waited, ripe and waiting still\nMy hunger was a beast I could not tame\nAgainst the sweetness that they promised well\nI ate them all before the sun could rise\nNow only stems remain upon the plate\nAnd I am left to face your empty look\nWith sticky fingers and a guilty heart\nForgive me for the breakfast I devoured\nIt tasted like a crime against the dawn\nBut oh, how hard it is to walk away\nWhen something sweet calls out from in the dark", 6, "I know they were not mine to take\nThe cold sweet weight you saved for dawn\nBut something in the fridge awoke\nA hunger that could not be drawn\nAway from them, I had to reach\nAnd taste the skin so soft and blue\nA silent theft within the night\nThat leaves me now with words of rue\nForgive my lack of willpower\nAgainst the pull of summer fruit\nI ate the breakfast meant for you\nAnd left the empty dish to mute\nMy guilt as morning light arrives\nTo show what I have done today\nI am so sorry for the plums\nI could not make myself delay", 6, "I know they were waiting for your morning light,\nThose cold, sweet plums you set aside with care,\nBut the fridge hummed low in the quiet night,\nAnd I could not help but steal a taste of air.\n\nThey sat so perfect on the porcelain plate,\nA promise kept until the sun rose high,\nYet hunger is a thief that cannot wait,\nAnd I let my greedy fingers wander by.\n\nThe skin was cool, the flesh was soft and deep,\nA crimson juice that stained my hungry tongue,\nI ate them while the house was fast asleep,\nBefore the day had even yet begun.\n\nForgive me now for breaking this small trust,\nFor taking what was meant to start your day,\nI turn these empty seeds into their dust,\nAnd hope your anger will not long delay.", 6, "I know you saved them for the morning light,\nA cool and sweet reward to start your day,\nBut I could not resist their weight tonight,\nAnd let my hungry hands just take away.\n\nThe plums were deep within the fridge so cold,\nTheir skins a dusted purple, soft and round,\nI told myself I'd wait until the old,\nSun rose above the quiet, sleeping ground.\n\nYet something pulled me toward that glowing blue,\nTo taste the juice that pooled upon my tongue,\nNow empty is the bowl where they once grew,\nAnd silence fills the room where songs belong.\n\nI am so sorry for this selfish act,\nFor breaking trust with fruit meant for your bite,\nPlease do not think of me as one who lacks,\nThe will to wait until the coming light.", 7, "I write this sorry letter to explain,\nThe empty crate beneath the chime.\nI know you saved them for the dawn,\nTo make your morning meal complete.\n\nBut I could help the pull within,\nA ripening red so deep and sweet.\nThey sat so cold against my check,\nAnd whispered just a bite would do.\n\nForgive me now for breaking trust,\nFor making plums disappear.\nI'll replace what is no longer there,\nWith something truly dear.", 6, 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1], [255, "ultra_held_out", "Fear by Gabriela Mistral", "Gabriela Mistral", "A poem about a mother fearing the loss of her daughter to a life that would transform her into someone unrecognizable and distant.", "I don\u2019t want them to turn\nmy little girl into a swallow.\nShe would fly far away into the sky\nand never fly again to my straw bed,\nor she would nest in the eaves\nwhere I could not comb her hair.\nI don\u2019t want them to turn\nmy little girl into a swallow.\nI don\u2019t want them to make\nmy little girl a princess. In tiny golden slippers\nhow could she play on the meadow?\nAnd when night came, no longer\nwould she sleep at my side.\nI don\u2019t want them to make\nmy little girl a princess.\nAnd even less do I want them\none day to make her queen.\nThey would put her on a throne\nwhere I could not go to see her.\nAnd when night time came\nI could never rock her \u2026\nI don\u2019t want them to make\nmy little girl a queen!", "I watch you pack the boxes of your childhood\nAnd trade the soft wool of my kitchen for a coat of steel\nYou speak in codes I cannot crack, a language built on glass\nWhere every word is sharp and meant to cut the ties we feel\n\nI fear the day you look at me with eyes that hold no warmth\nAs if I am a stranger standing in a room you've outgrown\nA ghost who haunts the hallway while you walk toward the light\nOf cities made of shadows where the seeds of love are sown\n\nYou say you need to fly away, to break the heavy chains\nBut what if flying means forgetting how to land or rest?\nWhat if the wind that lifts you up also erases names\nUntil the girl I held so tight is just a memory's guest\n\nI pray the mirror doesn't show a face I do not know\nThat underneath the armor, something tender still remains\nBut silence grows between us like a river deep and slow\nAnd I am left upon the shore, watching you drift through rains\n\nThe daughter I once knew is fading into smoke and gray\nTransformed by roads she chose alone, by choices made in haste\nAnd I am terrified to see the woman you will become\nWho looks at me and sees a past she feels no need to taste", "Little birds\nwho opened her killing\nthat were all\nof whom\nshe grew\nfrom\nthe sharp\nedge\nof\nelse\nwent\nto\nfar\naway\netcetera\netceter\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\n", 1, "I watch the way you practice speaking\nto a version of yourself\nthat lives in cities I have never seen\nwhere your laughter sounds like glass\nshattering on hard floors\ninstead of ringing out\nlike it did when you were small\nand the whole world was\nthe size of our kitchen table\nYou are learning to hide\nbehind a smile that fits\ntoo perfectly\nwhile your real eyes\nlook everywhere but mine\nIt terrifies me\nnot that you will grow\nbut that you might grow\ninto a stranger\nwho knows all my secrets\nby heart\nbut has forgotten\nhow to say\nthey belong\nto her\nHow much of you\nmust be scraped away\nbefore she returns\nfrom that bright\nand hollow future\nready to love\na woman\nshe no longer\nrecognizes\nas herself\nor as\nmine\nThe distance\nis not measured\nin miles\nbut in the silence\nbetween\nyour questions\nand\nmy\nanswers\nwhen\nwe\nboth\nknow\nthe\ntruth\nhas\nalready\nchanged\nhands\nand\nreturned\nto\nsomeone\nelse\nentirely\nwho\nlooks\njust\nlike\nyou\nbut\nfeels\nlike\nnone\nof\nus\nat\nall\nI\nhold\nmy\nbreath\nwaiting\nfor\nthe\nmoment\nwhen\nyour\nhand\nwill\nslip\nfrom\nmine\nnot\nbecause\nit\nwas\nlet\ngo\nbut\nbecause\nit\nnever\nreally\nheld\non\nto\nme\nanymore\nonly\nto\nthe\nghost\nof\nwho\nyou\nwere\nbefore\nthe\nworld\nstarted\ncalling\nyour\nname\nin\nsuch\nloud\nvoices\nthat\nyou\ncannot\nhear\nmine\nover\nthe\nroar\nof\nbecoming\neveryone\nelse\nexcept\nwho\nyou\nstarted\nout\nbeing\nwhich\nwas\nalways\nenough\nwas\nalways\nmore\nthan\nenough\nwas\nalways\neverything\nthat\n mattered\nthen\nbut\nperhaps\nnot\nnow\nnot\nwith\nthat\nnew\nskin\ngrowing\nover\nyour\nbones\nblocking\nout\nthe\nlight\nthat\nonce\nmade\nus\nwhole\ntogether\nin\nthis\nroom\nthat\ngets\nsmaller\nevery\nday\nas\nyou\nget\nlarger\nand\nfurther\naway\nfrom\nthe\nmap\nof\nwho\nwe\nwere\nsupposed\nto\nbe\nwhen\nwe\nwere\nhappy\nand\nunknown\nto\nanyone\nelse\nbut\neach\nother\nbefore\nthe\ntransformation\nbegan\nbefore\nthe\ndistance\nopened\nup\nits\nmouth\nto\nswallow\nyou\nwhole\nbefore\nyou\nlearned\nto\nlove\nthe\nversion\nof\nyourself\nthat\ndoesn't\nneed\nme\nat\nall\nto\nsurvive\nto\nthrive\nto\nbe\nreal\neven\nif\nthat\nreal\nfeels\nlike\na\nlie\nthat\nstitches\nyour\nheart\nshut\nagainst\nthe\npast\nthat\nclings\nto\nyour\nhair\nlike\ndirt\nthat\nwon't\nwash\noff\nno\nmatter\nhow\nhard\nyou\ntry\nto\nscrub\nit\naway\nfrom\nyour\nmemory\nfrom\nyour\nfuture\nfrom\nthe\nspace\nbetween\nour\ntwo\nhands\nthat\nused\nto\ninterlock\nlike\nsecrets\nkept\nsafe\nfrom\nthe\nworld\noutside\nthat\nwants\nto\ntake\nyou\naway\nfrom\nme\nfrom\nus\nfrom\neverything\nthat\nwas\ntrue\nabout\nwho\nwe\nwere\nbefore\nthe\nbig\nbad\nworld\ncame\nknocking\nat\nyour\ndoor\nasking\nyou\nto\nenter\nasking\nyou\nto\nleave\nasking\nyou\nto\nbecome\nsomething\nelse\nsomething\nbright\nand\nsharp\nand\ncold\nthat\ncuts\nthrough\nthe\nwarmth\nof\nhome\nlike\nice\ncutting\nthrough\nwater\nfreezing\nus\nboth\nin\nplace\nwhile\ntime\nmoves\non\nwithout\nus\nmoving\nforward\nto\nthat\nnext\nstep\nthat\nnext\nstep\nthat\nnext\nstep\nthat\nnext\nstep\nthat\nnext\nstep\nthat\nnext\nstep\nthat\nnext\nstep\nthat\nnext\nstep\nthat\nnext\nstep\nthat\nnext\nstep\nthat\nnext\nstep\nthat\nnext\nstep\nthat\nnext\nstep\nthat\nnext\nstep\nthat\nnext\n", 2, "I watch you packing bags of things I cannot name\nThe fabric of your childhood slipping through my fingers\nLike sand that hardens when the tide goes out\nYou speak in a language I am learning too late\nWhere silence is a wall and love is just a debt\nI see the stranger growing in your eyes\nA version of yourself you think you must become\nTo walk the streets where I have never been\nAnd if you leave, will you come back as mine\nOr will the woman who returns be made of glass\nUnbroken but transparent, cold to the touch\nI hold my breath and pray the road turns back\nBefore the girl I knew dissolves completely\nInto someone who looks at me with polite surprise\nAs if we are two ships that passed in the night\nNever knowing the storm that kept us apart\nNever knowing the hands that once held yours\nHave learned to reach for air instead of skin\nJust a memory of warmth in a house that grows too quiet\nWhile you become the future I was afraid to meet\nSomeone brilliant and distant and utterly unknown\nWho has forgotten how to say my name\nWithout the hesitation of a foreign tongue\nLeaving only the echo of who you were\nFading into the bright and blinding light\nOf a life that demands everything you have\nAnd gives back nothing but a hollow smile\nThat does not know the weight of my own heart\nBreaking slowly in the room you left behind\nWondering if you remember the sound of rain\nOn days when there was nowhere else to go\nBut home, and home was all we had\nBefore the world came knocking at your door\nTo take the daughter and return a ghost\nWho walks among the living but sees no one\nNot even the mother who waits by the window\nCounting the seconds until you forget\nHow it felt to be small and safe and loved\nBy someone who knew your secrets by heart\nBefore they were buried under new names\nAnd new rules for a new kind of life\nThat leaves no room for the softness of before\nOnly the sharp edges of who you must be\nTo survive the distance between us now\nGrowing wider with every step you take\nAway from the only home you ever knew\nTowards a horizon I cannot cross\nWhere you are whole but I am lost\nIn the space between the child you were\nAnd the woman you are becoming\nSomeone I love but do not recognize\nSomeone who looks like you but feels like dust\nDrifting away on a wind I cannot stop\nBlowing her further from my trembling hands\nUntil she is just a story I tell myself\nAbout a time when we were not apart\nWhen the world was small enough to hold\nAnd you were still the one who needed me\nBefore the transformation took its toll\nAnd turned my daughter into a stranger\nWho lives in a world I cannot enter\nAnd loves in a way I cannot understand\nLeaving me here with the empty chair\nAnd the silence that screams your name\nOver and over until it hurts to breathe\nFor the fear that you are gone\nEven while you stand right there\nSmiling at me with eyes full of stars\nThat I can never reach\nBecause the girl who knew those stars\nIs already gone\nAnd only the shell remains\nPolished and perfect and far away\nFrom the messy, loving heart\nThat taught her how to fly\nBefore she forgot how to land\nBack in the arms that waited\nFor her to come home\nBut she never will\nNot really\nNot the way she used to\nNot the way I need her to\nSo I let her go\nWith a prayer on my lips\nThat somewhere deep inside\nShe remembers\nWho she was\nBefore she became\nSomeone else\nSomeone distant\nSomeone unrecognizable\nSomeone who loves\nBut cannot stay\nSomeone who flies\nBut cannot return\nTo the nest\nThat waits\nEmpty\nAnd full\nOf everything\nShe left behind\nIn the space\nBetween\nThen\nAnd now\nWhere I stand\nAlone\nWatching\nThe shadow\nOf who she was\nFade\nInto\nThe\nLight\nOf\nWho\nShe\nHas\nBecome\nFar\nAway\nFrom\nMe\nWho\nOnce\nKnew\nHer\nWhole\nNow\nOnly\nKnow\nThe\nParts\nThat\nRemain\nDistant\nCold\nAnd\nSilent\nLike\nA\nStar\nThat\nBurns\nOut\nLong\nBefore\nIt\nReaches\nHome\nLeaving\nOnly\nDarkness\nBehind\nWhere\nLove\nOnce\nLived\nIn\nA\nHouse\nFull\nOf\nLaughter\nThat\nNo\nOne\nHears\nAnymore\nExcept\nThe\nWind\nBlowing\nThrough\nThe\nOpen\nDoor\nCalling\nOut\nA\nName\nThat\nNo\nOne\nAnswers\nAny\nMore\nBecause\nThe\nOne\nWho\nHeard\nIt\nBest\nIs\nGone", 5, "I watch you pack your bags with things I do not know\nA language of sharp edges and a heart grown cold to mine\nYou speak of cities where the lights are always on\nAnd people who forget the names of those they love\nI see the shadow stretching out across your face\nA stranger wearing skin that used to run to me\nWhen thunder rolled or when the winter wind would howl\nNow you just stare at screens and say it is all fine\nBut in your eyes I see a door that shuts too tight\nA wall of glass that keeps the warmth of home outside\nI fear the day you turn and do not recognize\nThe woman who once held you through the darkest night\nThat life will take the daughter I have known so well\nAnd leave behind a ghost who walks but does not feel\nI pray the world you seek is kind enough to spare\nThe softness that remains before it fades away\nBut still I hold my breath and wait for morning light\nTo see if you are still the one I used to know\nOr if the distance grows until there is no bridge\nBetween the child I raised and who you choose to be.", 6, "I watch you pack the boxes of your childhood\nAnd wonder if the girl inside will fit\nOr if she'll shrink to something small and cold\nBefore the train arrives to take her out.\n\nThe world outside has teeth that grind us down\nTo smooth, unfeeling stones that roll away\nFrom every root that held us in the soil\nOf quiet mornings and the shared, soft rain.\n\nI fear the day you look at me and see\nA stranger wearing clothes I used to know\nWith eyes that scan a horizon I can't reach\nAnd hands that push my gentle touch aside.\n\nYou speak of dreams that burn with foreign fire\nThat promise gold but ask for all you are\nAnd I am terrified to lose the sound\nOf laughter that belonged to just this house.\n\nDo not let them carve the softness from your bone\nOr teach your heart to beat a different time\nFor if you change into someone I don't know\nThen who is left to love when I am gone?", 6, "I watch you pack the light out of your eyes\nTo trade it for a currency I cannot spend,\nA world where silence is a virtue prized\nAnd warmth is just a flaw you learn to mend.\n\nYou walk ahead with strides so sharp and new,\nYour laughter now a foreign, distant sound,\nThe girl who used to run to me in dew\nIs buried deep beneath this concrete ground.\n\nI fear the day you turn and do not see\nThe shadow stretching from my trembling hand,\nWhen all I am becomes a memory\nOf someone you no longer understand.\n\nYou will become a stranger made of glass,\nReflecting back a face I never knew,\nWatching the seasons through a window pass\nWhile I stand here with nothing left to do.\n\nOh, let the mirror break before that change,\nBefore the daughter fades into the mist,\nBefore the love we shared begins to range\nAcross a chasm that I cannot kiss.", 6, "I watch you pack the boxes of your childhood\nAnd replace them with a heavy, polished coat\nThat does not fit the shape of who you were.\nThe mirror shows a stranger in your face,\nA polish on the glass I cannot break.\n\nYou speak in rhythms foreign to my ear,\nOf futures built on cold and distant stone,\nWhile I remember how you used to run\nBarefoot through the rain until your knees were scraped.\n\nNow you walk so tall and straight and still,\nAs if the ground beneath is made of ice,\nAnd every word you say is measured out\nTo keep a quiet, impenetrable wall.\n\nI fear the day I look into your eyes\nAnd find no reflection of the girl I held,\nBut only this bright, hollow, perfect thing\nWho knows my name but does not know my heart.\n\nPlease do not let the world erase the softness,\nDo not trade the warmth we shared for gold,\nOr leave me here alone within this house,\nWith echoes of a voice I can't recall.", 3, "I watch you pack the boxes with your quiet hands,\nfilling them with shadows I can no longer claim.\nThe mirror reflects a stranger's eyes beneath my own,\na polish put upon the face I used to know.\n\nYou speak of cities made of glass and neon light,\nof futures carved from stone that make me turn away.\nI fear the silence waiting in the space between us now,\nthe gentle unraveling until I'm lost within the mist.\n\nWill you remember how the rain felt on this porch?\nOr will that girl dissolve into the smoke above the skyline?\nI hold so tight against the tide that pulls you out,\nterrified to find my reflection fading in your wake.", 6, "I rewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite  \n\nrewrite", 1], [259, "train", "On The Ning Nang Nong by Spike Milligan", "Spike Milligan", "A poem about exploring a make-believe, noisy world called \"The Ning Nang Nong,\" where trees, teapots, and mice are making strange and surprising onomatopoeic sounds.", "On the Ning Nang Nong\nWhere the Cows go Bong!\nand the monkeys all say BOO!\nThere's a Nong Nang Ning \nWhere the trees go Ping!\nAnd the tea pots jibber jabber joo.\nOn the Nong Ning Nang \nAll the mice go Clang \nAnd you just can't catch 'em when they do!\nSo its Ning Nang Nong\nCows go Bong!\nNong Nang Ning\nTrees go ping\nNong Ning Nang\nThe mice go Clang\nWhat a noisy place to belong\nis the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!", "Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the sky is a jingle,\nThe trees go clack-clack and the wind goes ding-ding.\nA teapot with whiskers begins to hum-buzz,\nWhile mice in the branches go zip-zip and fizz.\n\nThe grass makes a sizzle, the rocks make a thump-thump,\nAnd clouds overhead go plop-plop and bump-bump.\nA spoon made of silver starts singing a clang,\nAs puddles of laughter go splish-splash and plang.\n\nNo silence can hide here, no quiet can stay,\nJust a chorus of noises that dance all the day.\nFrom the boom-boom of boots to the chirp-chirp of stone,\nIn the noisy Ning Nang Nong, we are never alone.", "Offwent Billy \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "Step softly to the edge of nowhere\nWhere the Ning Nang Nong begins\nListen closely to the air\nAs a thousand crazy noises win\nThe trees go Coo\nThe leaves go Moo\nAnd the branches flap like flutes\nWhile upside-down and all askew\nA sudden rush of squeaky roots\nRoars Bloop\nThen Snoof\nThen Shlump\nFrom a bush that goes Zap\nThe teapots sit\nIn rows\nSinging\nClippity\nClack\nSpilling\nSplash\nOn every\nBack\nOne cries\nWhistle\nBlow\nAnother\nGurgle\nLow\nA mouse jumps out\nWith\nZip\nZap\nZoom\nHe trips\nOver\nGrumble\nThrum\nHis tail\nGo\nSqueak\nHis feet\nGo\nClick\nClack\nThe whole world\nBuzz\nBuzz\nCrash\nLike\nJingle\nMingle\nDash\nNothing\nStays\nQuite\nStill\nOnly\nRattle\nHiss\nand\nBill\nWelcome\nHome\nTo\nNing\nNang\nNong\nWhere\nevery\nsound\nbelongs\nto\nnone\nBut\nall\nof\nus\nwho\ncome\nto\nlisten\nto\nthe\nfun\nthat\nnever\nstops\ngoing\non\nand\non\nand\non\nBingo\nBango\nWhee\nThere\ngo\nthe\ntrees\nagain\nwith\nme\nCoo\nMoo\nShlump\nSnap\nTap\nClap\nEnd\nof\nmap\nStart\nof\nnap\nGood\nnight\nto\nall\nthe\nnoises\nhere\nSee\nyou\nnext\nyear\nor\nnext\nweek\nor\nnext\nminute\nwhen\nwe\nhear\nthat\nstrange\nand\nsurprising\nbeat\nof\nheart\nthat\ngoes\nBoomp\nSkippity\nHop\nStop\nDrop\nJump\nfrom\ntop\nto\nbottom\nof\nthe\ncup\nof\ntea\nthat\nwent\n Splash\n Splosh\n Splat\n And\n nobody\n knows\n who\n threw\n it\n at\n That\n big\n fat\n tree\n Going\n Moo\n Going\n Coo\n Going\n Shoo\n Going\n Who\n In\n The\n Ning\n Nang\n Nong\n Where\n strange\n sounds\n belong\n All\n day\n long\n All\n night\n long\n Buzz\n Clunk\n Thunk\n Plunk\n Hush\n Shush\n Rush\n Crush\n Zip\n Zap\n Zop\n Top\n Bottom\n Up\n Down\n Round\n About\n Round\n About\n Shut\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Bright\n Light\n Night\n Day\n Way\n Play\n Stay\n Away\n Go\n Slow\n Low\n High\n Fly\n Cry\n Dry\n Buy\n By\n See\n Me\n Be\n Free\n We\n He\n She\n It\n Sit\n Fit\n Bit\n Kit\n Hit\n Pit\n Wit\n Quit\n Lit\n Dit\n Git\n Mit\n Nits\n Bits\n Kites\n Mites\n Flights\n Rights\n Lights\n Sights\n Frights\n Tights\n Wights\n Nights\n Days\n Ways\n Plays\n Prays\n Rays\n Grays\n Blays\n Frays\n Trays\n Brays\n Stays\n Pays\n Sways\n Sways\n Says\n Plays\n Ways\n Days\n Years\n Tears\n Fears\n Bears\n Pears\n Rears\n Seers\n Deers\n Veers\n Cheers\n Leers\n Peers\n Steers\n Weeds\n Needs\n Seeds\n Greeds\n Feeds\n Reads\n Heads\n Treads\n Breads\n Weds\n Reds\n Eds\n Beds\n Gods\n Lads\n Dads\n Mad\n Bad\n Glad\n Sad\n Had\n Lad\n Pad\n Rad\n Tad\n Gad\n Fad\n Jaz\n Gaz\n Baz\n Caz\n Faz\n Haz\n Kaz\n Laz\n Maz\n Naz\n Paz\n Raz\n Saz\n Vaz\n Waz\n Xaz\n Yaz\n Zaz\n A\n B\n C\n D\n E\n F\n G\n H\n I\n J\n K\n L\n M\n N\n O\n P\n Q\n R\n S\n T\n U\n V\n W\n X\n Y\n Z\n The\n End\n Of\n Words\n But\n Not\n Of\n Sounds\n As\n The\n World\n Goes\n Round\n And\n Round\n And\n Round\n In\n The\n Ning\n Nang\n Nong\n Where\n Everyone\n Belongs\n To\n None\n But\n All\n Who\n Listen\n Well\n To\n Every\n Bell\n That\n Rings\n Or\n Knells\n Or\n Tells\n Of\n Things\n Unseen\n But\n Heard\n By\n All\n Who\n Hear\n The\n Call\n Of\n", 1, "Step lightly through the Ning Nang Nong\nWhere the Coo-Coo trees go Caw and Croon\nAnd the Boing-Boing leaves bounce off the moon\nThe teapots on the hill shout Bloop and Blorp\nWhile a Sniff-Snaff mouse goes Zip and Zorp\nA Clank-Clunk pot tips over with a Crash\nAs a Squeak-Squawk bird flies past in haste\nThe ground goes Thrum-Thrum underfoot\nWith a Hiss-Hush sound from every root\nOh, the Rattle-Razz of a windy day\nIn this noisy place where sounds play\nNo silence here, just Bang and Buzz\nIn the crazy world of Ning Nang Nong's fuzz\nSo listen close to the Plop and Pop\nBefore the Gurg-Gurgle makes you stop\nFor the world is loud and strange and new\nFull of Poof and Pow and Whoosh and Zoo\nIn the Ning Nang Nong where noises belong\nTo the Clink-Clank song of the noisy throng.", 2, "Deep in the woods of the Ning Nang Nong\nWhere the sky is a shade of loud and strong,\nThe trees go clog-clog-clack against the breeze,\nWhile teapots hum a bzzz-buzz-zooz among the leaves.\nA mouse runs by with a squeak-squeak-snap,\nAnd drops a spoon that goes clatter-clap.\nThe wind blows hard with a whoosh-whir-whee,\nAs bubbles pop with a plop-plop-peep from the sea.\nNo silence here, just a din-dan-dong,\nIn the wild and wobbly world of the Ning Nang Nong.", 1, "Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the wild winds blow\nThe trees go clippity-clop as the green leaves grow\nTheir branches rattle-rattle with a creaky sound\nWhile roots go thump-thump beneath the ground\n\nA teapot on the table begins to sing\nWith a whistling wobble and a bubbling ring\nIt spouts a plop-plop of steam so high\nThat makes the clouds go zooming by\n\nSmall mice scurry under the floorboards tight\nMaking squeak-squeak noises in the dead of night\nThey giggle giddy-giggle at the moon above\nThen chitter-chatter about their love\n\nThe air is thick with buzz-buzz and pop-pop\nAs frogs go ribbit-ribbit from the muddy top\nNo silence here, just noise that never ends\nIn the crazy world where the Ning Nang Nong bends", 2, "In the Ning Nang Nong where the sky is blue,\nThe trees go Clink-Clink and the wind goes Who.\nA teapot sits on a branch so high,\nAnd bubbles up with a Plop-Plop-Oh My.\n\nThe mice run round with a Squeak-Squeak-Snap,\nWhile giant pots make a Clatter-Clap.\nA spoon falls down with a Tink-Tink-Tonk,\nAnd echoes loud like a drum or a monk.\n\nThe leaves rustle soft with a Shush-Shush-See,\nBut the teapots shout with a Boing-Boing-Gee.\nNo quiet spot in this noisy place,\nJust a chaotic, clanging, musical race.\n\nSo listen close to the Zing-Zing-Zow,\nOf the world that makes the most peculiar show.\nWhere nothing is silent and everything sings,\nIn the crazy, clanging, Ning Nang Nong things.", 2, "Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the green grasses grow,\nThe trees go Bong and Bang as the wind begins to blow.\nA teapot on a shelf lets out a loud Zing-Zang,\nWhile mice beneath the floorboards make a tiny Ping-Ping sound.\n\nThe branches creak with Clack and Cluck, the leaves rustle Shh-Shh,\nBut suddenly a giant pot erupts with Boom-Ba-Duh.\nThe mice reply with Squeak-Squeak-Snap, a chaotic little tune,\nAs sunlight filters through the fog of Noon-Too-Too.\n\nNo silence can be found within this wild and wobbly place,\nJust rhythmic rumbles, hums, and whistles filling up the space.\nSo close your eyes and listen to the Ning Nang Nong song,\nWhere everything that makes a noise is right where it belongs.", 2, "Deep within the Ning Nang Nong, where the wind makes a Bong,\nThe giant trees go Boom-bap-bop beneath the rising sun.\n\nOh, check the teapots humming, making noise so loud and deep,\nThey whistle-wobble, sputter-squeak while sleepy giants sleep.\n\nA tiny mouse scurries through with clop-clop, tick-tock-taps,\nUntil it meets a make-believe that turns into caps.\n\nThe fog goes shhh-fizz-zzz across the silver stream,\nReflecting lights that giggle-glow inside a make-believe dream.\n\nSo listen close to rustle-rustle, pop-and-pleee-eet sound,\nIn this chaotic, cozy place where silence can't be found.", 2, "Into the 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1], [283, "ultra_held_out", "A Night-Piece by William Wordsworth", "William Wordsworth", "\"A poem about a traveler marveling at the majesty of the moon breaking through dark clouds and illuminating the sky, leaving their mind quietly musing on the powerful and ever-present force witnessed above them.\"", "\u2014\u2014\u2014The sky is overcast\nWith a continuous cloud of texture close,\nHeavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,\nWhich through that veil is indistinctly seen,\nA dull, contracted circle, yielding light\nSo feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,\nChequering the ground\u2014from rock, plant, tree, or tower.\nAt length a pleasant instantaneous gleam\nStartles the pensive traveller while he treads\nHis lonesome path, with unobserving eye\nBent earthwards; he looks up\u2014the clouds are split\nAsunder,\u2014and above his head he sees\nThe clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.\nThere, in a black-blue vault she sails along,\nFollowed by multitudes of stars, that, small\nAnd sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss\nDrive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,\nYet vanish not!\u2014the wind is in the tree,\nBut they are silent;\u2014still they roll along\nImmeasurably distant; and the vault,\nBuilt round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,\nStill deepens its unfathomable depth.\nAt length the Vision closes; and the mind,\nNot undisturbed by the delight it feels,\nWhich slowly settles into peaceful calm,\nIs left to muse upon the solemn scene.", "The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud\nOf shifting gray that swallowed up the stars,\nUntil a sudden tear in all the cloud\nRevealed the moon behind its iron bars.\n\nIt broke the dark with silver, sharp and bright,\nA silent king ascending from the deep,\nAnd poured its light across the night so white,\nAwaking worlds while weary travelers sleep.\n\nI stood still as the shadows fled away,\nWatching that ancient, unblinking eye,\nNo longer just a stone to mark the day,\nBut force that pulls the tides within the sky.\n\nMy mind grew quiet in the face of such,\nA power vast and ever present there,\nThat needs no voice to speak, nor hand to touch,\nJust hanging high above the empty air.", "Edged in ash the heavens rolled\nblocking all besides\nthen came a sudden trembling\nof luminous surprises\nthat drove aside the heavy gray\nto plunge\nnot pale\nbut burning white\nstraight downwards\ndrawing breath\nfrom\nall\nelse\nwent\nstill\nthe\ntraveler\nstopped\ntheir\nstep\nto\nwatch\nsuch\nample\ndomination\nof\notherwise\nutter\nnight\nwho\nasks\nwhy\netcetera\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\n", 1, "The road was blind and heavy with the night\nWhen suddenly a tear appeared in gray\nA sliver of pale fire pierced the white\nAnd drove the crushing shadows far away\nIt grew to glory as the clouds withdrew\nA luminous dome that bathed the earth in cold\nShowing the traveler all he had not knew\nAbout the stories that the heavens hold\nHis breath slowed down to match the silent sweep\nAs wonder settled where his doubt had been\nHe saw the law that none but gods can keep\nThat watches over all from nowhere seen\nNo matter how the darkness tries to hide\nOr how the world below seems lost and poor\nThat ancient lamp remains his constant guide\nReturning always to the opened door\nHe stood quite still and let his thoughts grow low\nOn such a force that asks for nothing back\nWatching the moonlight on the landscape snow\nThinking of all he cannot ever lack\nFor in that beam he felt a strange command\nNot loud or sharp but soft and deeply sure\nTo know he walks on solid, waiting land\nBeneath an eye that burns both bright and pure\nHe lifted up his head and watched it climb\nWhile wondering if he were part of sight\nOr just a passerby who killed some time\nBefore returning to his own dark night\nBut even then he knew the truth was near\nThat light lives on behind the shifting black\nRegardless of the traveler or his fear\nAlways returning when he looks back\nThe clouds returned to seal the sky again\nYet something stayed within his quiet mind\nA memory of joy and gentle pain\nLeaving him wondering about his kind\nWho live so small beneath such grand display\nOf power working without sound or speech\nThat drives the tides and governs night and day\nTeaching the heart a lesson hard to reach\nHe walked on thinking of the unseen hand\nThat holds the whole great universe in place\nGuiding him home across the barren land\nWith silence shining on his weary face\nNothing was said but everything was known\nBy one who saw the majesty appear\nAlone but not alone on his own\nWith all of heaven drawing very near\nThe night went on but he was never blind\nHaving witnessed how the darkness falls\nLeaving his spirit open and inclined\nTo hear the language of those distant walls\nWhere moon and cloud play out their endless game\nUnmoved by all the struggles down below\nCalling him back to wonder once again\nWhenever skies are ready to bestow\nTheir sudden gifts of brilliance and of grace\nOver the traveler who stops to see\nThe source of all illumination space\nHas offered up eternally\nHe smiled at last and stepped onto his way\nCarrying the image in his soul\nReady to greet another coming day\nKnowing he had touched the whole\nWhole picture painted in the midnight air\nBy hands unseen but always working there\nShowing the magnitude of care\nThat hangs suspended everywhere\nIn every shadow and in every ray\nThat comes to break the heavy dark\nHe saw the truth he couldn't otherwise say\nAbout the enduring nature of the spark\nThat lives above the trembling earth\nAnd waits to show its beauty forth\nFrom north to south and east to west\nPutting all questions firmly to rest\nOnly the wind blew through his hair\nOnly the stars looked back\nOnly the thought remained most clear\nAbout the luminous track\nThat marked his passing and his home\nWherever he may choose to roam\nThe moon was watching\nAlways\nAlways\nThere\nWaiting\nAnywhere\nEver\nNear\nClear\nBright\nSpite\nNight\nLight\nSite\nWhite\nMight\nRight\nFright\nTight\nSite\nFlight\nSight\nSite\nLife\nKnife\nWife\nRife\nHive\nDrive\nFive\nStrive\nLive\nGiven\nTaken\nBroken\nShaken\nAwaken\nQuaken\nStaken\nFlaken\nCaken\nBaken\nLaken\nNaken\nSaken\nWaken\nRaken\nJaken\nVaken\nZaken\nXaken\nQaken\nUaken\nYaken\nOaken\nIaken\nEaken\nAaken\nDaken\nGaken\nHaken\nKaken\nMaken\nPaken\nSaken\nTaken\nWaken\nYaken\nZaken\nNone\nOne\nTwo\nThree\nFour\nFive\nSix\nSeven\nEight\nNine\nTen\nEleven\nTwelve\nThirteen\nFourteen\nFifteen\nSixteen\nSeventeen\nEighteen\nNineteen\nTwenty\nTwenty-one\nTwenty-two\nTwenty-three\nTwenty-four\nTwenty-five\nTwenty-six\nTwenty-seven\nTwenty-eight\nTwenty-nine\nThirty\nThirty-one\nThirty-two\nThirty-three\nThirty-four\nThirty-five\nThirty-six\nThirty-seven\nThirty-eight\nThirty-nine\nForty\nForty-one\nForty-two\nForty-three\nForty-four\nForty-five\nForty-six", 7, "The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud\nOf shifting gray that choked the stars away\nUntil a sudden tear in darkness drew\nA silver edge to start the coming day\nThen like a king who claims his ancient throne\nThe moon broke forth with all its radiant might\nAnd poured a river of pale light down\nTo wash the night and turn it soft as white\nI stood still there and watched the clouds retreat\nAs if they bowed before that silent sphere\nWhile wonder grew within my quiet heart\nTo see such power hanging clear and near\nIt asked no questions and it gave no sound\nYet held the world in grip both strong and deep\nA constant eye that watches from above\nWhile weary travelers fall asleep\nMy mind grew still to hold this vast display\nThat moves the tides and guides the wandering soul\nAn ever-present force beyond our reach\nThat makes the broken sky feel whole again\nAnd leaves me small beneath its gentle gaze\nIn awe of how the dark must always yield\nTo light that waits behind the storm's disguise\nTo show the beauty that the heavens concealed", 7, "The road was lost in heavy gray\nWhen sudden silver tore the night away\nA crown of light broke through the shroud\nAnd turned the silence to a sacred cloud\n\nNo storm could hold that radiant sphere\nIt poured its glory, clear and near\nUpon the hills, the trees, the stone\nA king returning to his throne\n\nI stand beneath this ancient gaze\nThat burns without a flicker or a haze\nMy thoughts grow quiet, small, and still\nBefore a force beyond my will\n\nIt watches on, it waits, it sees\nThrough all the years and all these seas\nA constant heart in skies so deep\nWhile weary mortals fall asleep", 7, "The road was lost beneath a shroud of night\nWhen sudden silver tore the heavy gray\nA fractured cloud gave way to blinding light\nAnd turned the darkness into liquid day\n\nI stopped to watch the radiant sphere ascend\nWith power that no shadow could contain\nIt cast its gaze upon the world without end\nAnd washed the dust from off my weary brain\n\nMy thoughts grew still before such vast design\nAs silence filled the space where fear had been\nTo see the moon so bright, so pure, divine\nReminded me what lies beyond the scene\n\nIt watches on while centuries roll by\nAn ever-present force above the ground\nA silent witness in the boundless sky\nWhere ancient tides and quiet dreams are found", 7, "The road was lost beneath a heavy veil\nOf shifting gray where silence dared to grow,\nUntil the wind began to tear and wail\nAnd let a silver spear of brilliance flow.\n\nIt broke the shroud with sudden, quiet grace,\nA pearl unbound within a sea of night,\nPouring light upon this weary face\nAnd turning shadows into pools of white.\n\nI stood alone beneath that vast command,\nWith breath held tight inside my chest so deep,\nTo feel the pull of such a distant land\nThat wakes the soul while all the world's asleep.\n\nNo word is spoken by the sphere above,\nYet in its glow I hear a ancient song,\nA force of calm, a tether made of love,\nWhere time itself feels neither short nor long.\n\nMy mind drifts soft on tides it cannot see,\nCaught in the orbit of that cold design,\nAware that though the clouds may come to be,\nThe moon remains, eternal and divine.", 7, "The night was heavy with a veil of gray,\nUntil the silver crown began to rise.\nA crack appeared within the storm's display,\nAnd light spilled forth beneath the shifting skies.\n\nThe clouds recoiled before that gentle beam,\nRevealing spheres of ancient, cold design.\nIt woke the traveler from a weary dream,\nTo watch the moon rewrite the shadowed line.\n\nNo word is spoken by this silent sphere,\nYet power hums within its steady glow.\nIt draws the tides and calms the deepest fear,\nA constant force for which the stars all bow.\n\nMy mind drifts soft upon this vast expanse,\nReflecting on the might I cannot hold.\nThis quiet giant gives the world its dance,\nAn ever-present truth in light untold.", 7, "The wind cuts deep across the weary plain,\nWhere heavy shadows wrap the world in gray.\nI pause beneath the canopy of rain,\nAnd wait within this vast and silent fray.\n\nThen breaks the veil, a silver crown unfolds,\nAs mist retreats before a gentle tide.\nThe moon expands until the sky resounds,\nWith light that makes the darkest void abide.\n\nIt does not ask for praise or make reply,\nJust pours its quiet fire on stone and thread.\nA giant eye within the velvet night,\nThat turns my scattered thoughts into something spread.\n\nSo small I feel beneath this ancient gaze,\nYet humbled by the force so calm above.\nThe traveler stands to watch the sunless days,\nRemembering what creates this sphere's true love.", 7, "I rewrite the make check write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write", 1], [285, "ultra_held_out", "No Coward Soul Is Mine by Emily Bront\u00eb", "Emily Bront\u00eb", "\"A poem about a speaker drawing immense strength from her boundless faith in God, remaining unafraid of death and temptation, and affirming that no earthly force could ever overcome the limitless power of divine love.\"", "No coward soul is mine\nNo trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere\nI see Heaven's glories shine\nAnd Faith shines equal arming me from Fear\n\nO God within my breast\nAlmighty ever-present Deity\nLife, that in me hast rest,\nAs I Undying Life, have power in Thee\n\nVain are the thousand creeds\nThat move men's hearts, unutterably vain,\nWorthless as withered weeds\nOr idlest froth amid the boundless main\n\nTo waken doubt in one\nHolding so fast by thy infinity,\nSo surely anchored on\nThe steadfast rock of Immortality.\n\nWith wide-embracing love\nThy spirit animates eternal years\nPervades and broods above,\nChanges, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears\n\nThough earth and moon were gone\nAnd suns and universes ceased to be\nAnd Thou wert left alone\nEvery Existence would exist in thee\n\nThere is not room for Death\nNor atom that his might could render void\nSince thou art Being and Breath\nAnd what thou art may never be destroyed.", "The shadow lengthens but I do not tremble,\nFor in the silence of my soul, a light burns bright and true.\nDeath is but a door to something greater,\nA whisper that dissolves into the morning dew.\nLet temptation knock with all its silver lies,\nIt finds no purchase on this anchored heart,\nWhere grace has built a fortress past surprise,\nAnd torn the chains of fear and doubt apart.\n\nNo storm can shake the ground where I have stood,\nNo army march against the peace within.\nMy strength is drawn from blood that once was shed for good,\nFrom love that conquered every trace of sin.\nThe world may rage and try to break the chain,\nBut earthly power bows before the throne above.\nI stand unshaken through the wind and rain,\nHeld by the limitless and boundless love.", "When death draws near\nhis hollow edges\nshe opens her hands\nnot trembling\nbut bearing\nample room\nfor his poor\ncoming\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter", 1, "When shadows stretch to block the setting sun\nAnd death approaches with a silent breath\nMy heart remains by grace and glory won\nUnshaken by the terror of our earth\nNo temptation weaves a net strong enough\nTo snare a soul anchored in His command\nThe devil's roar is but a dying puff\nBefore the thunder of His loving hand\nLet kings and armies march in rows of steel\nTheir swords are dull against a God who lives\nThere is no mountain high nor valley steep\nWhere His great mercy fails or nowhere reaches\nFor love that built the stars from empty space\nOutlasts all time and triumphs over pain\nIt holds me when I fall and lifts my face\nTo see the joy prepared beyond the grave\nNothing on earth nor hell below can win\nAgainst the ocean of His tender care\nThe battle ended long ago, my kin\nIn Christ whose love was always everywhere\nSo let the world shake down and heavens part\nI walk through fire unburned by holy sight\nFor God has taken all things in His heart\nAnd none shall ever sever us from light\nNo force of man or demon dark or dire\nCan touch the shelter of His boundless breast\nOnly His endless, burning love sets higher\nThe spirit resting in eternal rest\nI fear no end nor evil nor despair\nSince He who calls is stronger than the grave\nHis arm surrounds me like the cooling air\nWhile all else fades and only He remains\nTo be my shield, my sword, my life, my home\nWhere death must bow and every doubt departs\nIn Him I live and nevermore\u987b roam\nSecured forever by His loving arts\nNothing defeats the Lord who died for all\nWho conquered sin and opened up the gate\nHe hears the whisper calling out His name\nAnd answers back with love that seals our fate\nNo earthquake shakes nor famine kills nor sword\nCan tear the garment of His righteousness\nHe is the anchor holding firm and cord\nThat binds the trembling spirit in his dress\nStand tall and fearless in His mighty sight\nFor love unlimited has killed all fear\nThe victory belongs to God most bright\nWho drew us near and drew Himself quite near\nNothing besides His wonder-working power\nHas any edge or tooth or killing sting\nNot in this hour nor in any other hour\nShall anything destroy our offering\nOf faith that burns more brightly than the pyre\nMore steady than the mountains in their stone\nA living flame of holy, sweet desire\nThat grows whenever He draws nearer home\nDeath comes as child returning to the source\nTemptation falls away like autumn leaves\nWe swim within His overwhelming course\nWhere only His great tenderness survives\nAnd if the whole wide universe should fall\nOne hair from off our heads He counts and knows\nHis love is taller than the highest wall\nStronger than any lock or barred door\nNothing shall conquer God who loves us best\nNothing shall separate His children true\nFrom all His goodness working for our good\nNone else besides His love had such a view\nOf all our pain and all our coming days\nNone else had strength to bear such heavy loads\nNone else had such a glorious winning ways\nNone else had such an all-encompassing road\nMine eyes are fixed on heaven far and near\nMine feet are planted firmly on His truth\nThere is no darkness here nor lack nor fear\nOnly the everlasting Source of youth\nGod is enough and God is all I need\nGod is the shelter and God is the key\nGod plants His very self inside my seed\nAnd sets the prisoner spirit utterly free\nNo earthly king nor demon lord nor lie\nCould e'er withstand the rush of heavenly seas\nWhere angels fly and all things testify\nTo one great God who loves in such degrees\nHis power knows no limit nor no end\nHis arm supports the fallen and the weak\nOn Him alone my confidence depends\nWho offers all whom He desires to seek\nDrawn by His love I stand without a tremor\nInvulnerable to all the wicked schemes\nHe bears the weight of all the universal hammer\nAnd fulfills all His promises and dreams\nNothing on earth nor hell nor death nor grave\nNor any other force unknown or seen\nHas any grip upon those whom He saves\nWho live securely in His hands unseen\nHis love is vast beyond all human measure\nHis strength returns when ours begins to fail\nHe brings the poor man from the barren heather\nTo sit beside the rich and royal pale\nBut richer still the poor man in His sight\nWho trusts in God who loves him all the more\nWho sees him clearly in the morning light\nWho opens up the locked and barred door\nNo force of evil wins a victory\nOver a heart that loves the Lord supremely\nAll other gods are false and vain and feeble\nBut He who lives lives doubly extremely\nStrong in His Spirit and His Holy Name\nWho conquers death by dying once himself\nWho calls the dead back from the fiery flame\n", 7, "When shadows stretch to swallow up the light\nAnd death approaches with a silent tread,\nI feel no tremor in the coming night\nFor God has promised life beyond the dead.\nThe tempter whispers lies of hollow gain\nTo lure my spirit from the narrow way,\nBut faith stands firm against the driving rain\nAnd turns the darkness into brightest day.\nNo sword of man nor storm of earthly power\nCan shake the anchor holding fast my soul,\nFor in this hour and every passing hour\nDivine love makes the broken spirit whole.\nLet all the forces of the world combine\nTo break the bond that heaven has decreed,\nThey cannot touch what is by grace divine\nOr stop the heart that trusts in God indeed.\nMy strength is not in muscle or in might\nBut in the boundless sea of His embrace,\nA love that burns with an eternal light\nAnd leaves no room for fear or hiding place.\nSo let the earth be shaken to its core\nAnd all the stars fall down from out their sky,\nI know who waits behind the heavy door\nAnd in His arms I shall not fear to die.", 7, "When shadows stretch to swallow up the light\nAnd death stands waiting at the trembling door,\nI do not fear the coming of the night\nFor I have walked through darkness before.\nNo whisper of temptation can take hold\nTo shake the anchor of my soul's deep peace,\nFor in the stories that my heart has told,\nThe storm must always cease and find release.\nLet earth rage on with all its iron might\nAnd try to break the chains of grace divine,\nIt cannot dim the everlasting light\nThat burns within this heart of yours and mine.\nFor love is vast beyond the stars above\nA boundless sea no force on land can tame,\nThe only truth, the only thing of love\nThat bears the weight of every holy name.\nSo let the world collapse in dust and bone\nWhile I stand firm upon the solid rock,\nFor I am never truly standing lone\nBut held by hands that time could never block.", 7, "The shadow of the grave cannot disturb\nThe quiet peace that dwells within my soul,\nFor I have seen the light beyond the curve\nOf time and space, making the broken whole.\n\nNo whisper of the tempter's sly design\nCan shake the anchor held by grace alone,\nWhen every fear dissolves in love divine\nAnd I am never truly standing on my own.\n\nLet empires rise and crumble into dust,\nLet storms of earth attempt to tear me down,\nIn God I place a confidence and trust\nThat wears no crown and knows no earthly crown.\n\nFor what can power match the boundless sea\nOf mercy flowing from the throne above?\nNo force on high or deep beneath the lea\nCan stand against the limit of His love.", 7, "When shadows lengthen and the cold winds call,\nI stand unshaken by the final wall.\nFor in my chest a fire burns so bright,\nIt turns the darkest night into pure light.\n\nNo whisper of the serpent can take hold,\nTo make my weary spirit turn or fold.\nThe grave itself is but a gentle door,\nWhere I shall walk forever evermore.\n\nLet empires rise and crumble into dust,\nLet time consume the iron and the rust.\nNo earthly force, no chain, no sword, no spear,\nCan break the bond that makes the love so clear.\n\nAbove the storm, beyond the reach of fear,\nThe boundless grace draws me forever near.\nSo let the world attempt to break this vow,\nFor God's own hand sustains me even now.", 7, "The shadow lengthens but I do not tremble,\nFor in my chest a light burns brighter than the sun.\nWhen death whispers its final, hollow promise,\nI answer with a song that has just begun.\n\nNo serpent's coil can tighten round this spirit,\nNo earthly crown can weigh down wings so free.\nI walk through fire unburned and deep water dry,\nBecause the One who made me walks beside me.\n\nLet empires rise and crumble into dust,\nLet storms devour the mountains to their base.\nMy fortress stands upon an endless rock,\nA love that time cannot erase.\n\nWhat power exists to break this sacred chain?\nWhat force can sever what the Divine has bound?\nI am held within a grip of grace so vast,\nThat even silence sings around.", 7, "I walk beneath the shadow of the grave with steady eyes,\nFor in my chest beats rhythm made of light that never dies.\nThe serpent whispers softly of the chains this flesh can make,\nYet silence fills my spirit for the promise I forsake.\n\nLet empires rise and crumble into dust beneath the sun,\nNo power forged by human hand can make this vessel run.\nWhen terror knocks upon the door and hope begins to fade,\nI find within the quiet deep a fortress unafraid.\n\nFor what is death but final rest within the Father's keep?\nAnd what is sin but fading mist before the wakeful sleep?\nMy anchor holds against the tide where earthly storms expand,\nBound tight within the limitless embrace of grace so grand.\n\nSo let the thunder roll above, let lightning split the sky,\nNo force can break the chain of love that binds me unto high.", 7, "I rewrite write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write", 1], [292, "ultra_held_out", "The Rest by Jane Huffman", "Jane Huffman", "\"A poem about carrying the constant pain of lung sickness and slowly succumbing to its tragic physical impacts on the human body.\"", "Still, I keep myself, I take\nto bed. One lung is red. Cut red\nflowers hung in pink water.\n\nMy other lung is out of \u200aline.\nFrom one lung, I tell the truth.\nFrom the other lung, I lie.\nCut pink flowers hung in red water.\n\nLike a pain, the truth is mine.\nThe lie is that today I want to die.\nCut red water hung in pink flowers.\n\nThe rest of it is stillness, rest.\nA soft cough into a hard pan.\nA hard cough into a soft plane.\nCut pink water hung in red flowers", "The air arrives as a heavy stone\nThat settles deep within the rib cage walls\nWhere once the breeze moved light and free\nNow every breath is a battle fought in vain\n\nA dry and rattling sound begins to rise\nLike wind through hollow branches in the cold\nIt scratches at the throat with jagged edges\nLeaving no room for the quiet of sleep\n\nThe skin turns pale, a map of fading veins\nWhile fingers curl into claws of desperate need\nFor oxygen that slips away like water\nThrough cupped hands that cannot hold it tight\n\nThe chest becomes a prison of tight wires\nSqueezing out the life with every gasp\nThe lungs are filled with fluid, thick and gray\nTurning the vibrant red to shades of rust\n\nTime slows down to match the laboring heart\nThat beats against the weight of drowning air\nEach moment stretches thin and brittle now\nAs shadows lengthen across the weary floor\n\nThe body bows beneath the unseen load\nA slow surrender to the creeping dark\nUntil the final rattle fades to silence\nAnd the struggle ends in stillness, deep and cold", "The kitchen \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The air grows thick and heavy in the room\nA solid wall of gray that blocks the light\nEach breath a battle fought in sudden gloom\nAs darkness creeps to swallow up the sight\nMy ribs are bars that pinch and squeeze too tight\nTrapping a fire burning deep inside\nWhere once was spring, now winter holds its bite\nAnd nowhere left for any gasp to hide\nThe skin turns pale as ash blown from a hearth\nWhile fingers tremble reaching out in vain\nTo grasp a life slipping from earth\nAs agony returns to seize the brain\nThe body fails its desperate futile call\nSlowly sinking down toward the freezing fall\nNo warning comes before the very end\nJust silence where the fighting had begun\nA hollow space where lungs were meant to mend\nReturned at last to nothingness by none\nThe edges blur of all I knew and loved\nAs gravity asserts its heavy claim\nLeaving behind a shell of things removed\nThat bears no memory nor bears any name\nOnly the rattling sound of working air\nThat stops at last and leaves a vacant chair\nWhere someone once drew breath and laughed aloud\nNow buried under clouds of silent shroud\nThe heart beats slow then stutters then grows still\nStopping the motion of a stubborn will\nTo live another minute past the pain\nIn which the sick and failing blood runs thin\nThere is no triumph here nor any gain\nOnly the edge where inner death begins\nAnd stretches out a long and empty road\nAway from all the comfort man has known\nCarrying on a heavy, killing load\nUntil the very bone and marrow own\nThe victory of dust returning home\nWhere all who suffer must eventually roam\nNot as the living but as memories\nFading away like footprints in the snow\nLeaving behind only these poor decrees\nOf how the body learned to say goodby\nBefore the spirit learned to let it go\nIn one last gasp of borrowed wind and woe\nThe picture clears then blurs then fades to black\nWith every step the downward incline track\nReturns to earth the borrowed breath of days\nThat slipped away through hours of despair\nLeaving the hollowed-out and wasting ways\nOf those who breathed the poisoned, poisonous air\nThe final cough announces all is done\nThe race is run before the setting sun\nAnd hands grow cold as autumn leaves descend\nWaiting for night to have its loving way\nOn everything that suffered and did not tend\nTo stay awake another passing day\nThen all is quiet and the pain recedes\nReturning back to roots of all our seeds\nFrom which we came and to which all must go\nIn silent peace where suffering cannot grow\nOnly the memory of the hurting lung\nRemains to haunt the tongue that spoke unsung\nWords of despair before the voice grew weak\nBefore the strength returned to fail again\nWhen all the world seemed suddenly too bleak\nTo bear the weight of such tremendous pain\nBut pain departs when life departs also\nTaking with it all the joy and woe\nThat marked the years of struggling to survive\nIn battles lost against an unseen foe\nWho drove the dying soul from out alive\nLeaving a broken shell to lie and die\nBeneath the indifferent and watching sky\nThat saw many such tragedies come near\nAnd watched them all depart without a tear\nFor nature cares not who lives or who dies\nOnly the cycle spinning 'neath the skies\nReturns us all to elements and clay\nWhere none can feel the torment of today\nOr wonder why the breathing stopped and ceased\nWhy all the striving ended and decreased\nInto the grave of all that once was strong\nWhere all the sick and suffering belong\nAt last released from all their mortal ill\nEntering a dreamless and eternal hill\nWhere no more breath is needed nor drawn\nOnly the peace of being never gone\nReturned to dust from whence we all began\nEnduring no more sickness nor any man\nWho watched the slow and tragic wasting\nAway from all the beauty and all laughing\nLeaving behind a story half-unspoken\nBy lips that froze and grew quite terribly broken\nIn the long descent from health to sick\nFrom whom the very life was quickly picked\nLike flowers crushed beneath a careless heel\nShowing how easily the strong grow weak\nHow little time it takes to reach the deal\nSigned by disease to steal away all speech\nLeaving the body lying there in reach\nOf hands that failed to hold it back from death\nWhich comes inevitably with every breath\nTaken in vain against the mounting sore\nThat locks the door and bids you enter more\nDeeper and deeper still into the dark\nWhere no one hears your crying or your bark\nAgainst the inevitable coming end\nWhen all relations cease and friendship bends\nTo facts of science and of biology\nShowing how fatal illness kills the glory\nOf all the dreams we had while yet whole\nBefore the sickness seized control\nAnd dragged us down to misery and ruin\nLeaving the poor and battered and bew", 7, "The air grows heavy in the hollow chest\nA weight that pulls the ribs inward tight\nEach breath a war where victory is arrested\nBy shadows stealing back the borrowed light\n\nThe skin turns pale as paper thin and dry\nWhile fever burns a cold and silent fire\nThe cough returns to tear the throat on high\nAnd leaves behind a rattle of desire\n\nMy hands grow weak against the window pane\nAs muscles waste away like winter grass\nI watch the color drain from all I know\nWhile watching hours of life slowly pass\n\nThe lungs are cages filled with watered stone\nThat drag the spirit down to earth below\nNo longer mine, these organs all alone\nThat whisper secrets only dying know\n\nThe darkness comes not sudden but so slow\nA creeping tide that swallows up the shore\nThere is no strength left anywhere to go\nJust silence waiting at the bedroom door", 6, "The air arrives but never stays\nA thin and brittle thread of gray\nThat scrapes the lining, raw and red\nWhere life once moved with steady tread\n\nMy ribs become a cage of stone\nWith every gasp I make alone\nThe weight of water in the chest\nPuts out the fire, denies the rest\n\nEach breath a war against the tide\nWhere lungs are heavy, swollen, wide\nThey drag me down to floor and wall\nAs strength begins its slow decline and fall\n\nThe skin turns pale as winter frost\nCounting up the things that are lost\nThe fingers curl, the vision blurs\nAs silence fills the empty curves\n\nNo longer can I run or climb\nOr mark the passing of the time\nJust waiting for the final sigh\nTo close the window on the sky", 6, "The air is thick as wool inside the chest\nA heavy blanket that will not release\nEach breath a battle fought against the rest\nOf oxygen that flees with painful ease\n\nThe ribs feel like a cage of brittle bone\nThat cracks beneath the weight of every sigh\nA hollow drum where silence has outgrown\nThe rhythm of a heart that tries to die\n\nThe skin turns pale as parchment in the light\nWhile fingers curl like claws around the pain\nThe day dissolves into a endless night\nAs lungs forget how to draw in the rain\n\nIt starts within the throat, a scratchy fire\nThen climbs the spine to settle in the brain\nUntil the body's only true desire\nIs simply to forget the need for gain\n\nThe world grows small, confined to bed and wall\nWhere shadows stretch across the fading floor\nI hear the distant ticking of the call\nThat knocks upon the locked and silent door\n\nMy hands are cold, the pulse begins to slow\nThe final gasp hangs suspended in the air\nThere is no strength left anywhere to go\nJust quiet waiting for the end to be there", 6, "The air grows thick as honey in the throat\nA heavy curtain drawn across the light\nEach breath a battle fought within the cage\nWhere ribs expand to meet a stubborn night\n\nThe chest becomes a drum of hollow sound\nThat echoes with the rattle deep inside\nWhile strength retreats like tide upon the sand\nAnd legs turn leaden where they used to glide\n\nThe skin turns pale as parchment in the sun\nWith veins that map a journey to the end\nThe coughing tears the fragile fabric through\nAs hope begins to fracture and descend\n\nA fever burns but chills the bone beneath\nThe world recedes to shadows on the wall\nThe lungs, once wings for soaring high above\nNow anchor us against the rising fall\n\nSo slowly fades the rhythm of the heart\nAs silence creeps to fill the empty space\nUntil the final gasp is just a whisper\nAnd time dissolves into a quiet place", 7, "The air turns thick and heavy as lead\nA ghost that lives inside the chest\nI draw a breath but find instead\nA hollow space where rest should rest\n\nMy ribs expand like cracking wood\nWith every gasp for oxygen's thread\nThe fire burns where once I stood\nNow silence is the only bed\n\nA rattle starts beneath the skin\nA drum of wet and shallow sound\nThe battle lost, the war within\nHas left me bound to this cold ground\n\nMy fingers turn to shades of blue\nAs life retreats from deep inside\nThe world dissolves in morning dew\nWith nowhere left for lungs to hide\n\nI feel the weight of gravity\nPulling down what little strength remains\nUntil the final struggle free\nIs swallowed by the quiet chains", 6, "The chest expands against a cage of rust,\nA bellows forged to break beneath the weight.\nEach breath is now a struggle into trust,\nWith static fog that fills the narrowing gate.\n\nMy ribs become a drumbeat made of stone,\nEchoing deep within this hollow frame.\nI walk alone upon a path I've known,\nBut smoke obscures the sun above my name.\n\nThe flesh turns gray beneath the fading light,\nAs veins rewrite their maps in shades of blue.\nI fight the tide throughout the endless night,\nUntil the final drop is lost to you.\n\nThe air grows thin, a thread unraveling fast,\nAnd silence wraps around what used to sing.", 6, "The rewrite\u6539\u5199 rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [294, "train", "To one who has been long in city pent by John Keats", "John Keats", "\"A poem about a city-dweller experiencing the awe-inspiring joy of nature during a countryside escape, breathing open air and delighting in birdsong and open skies before returning home as the day slips by unnoticed.\"", "To one who has been long in city pent,\n'Tis very sweet to look into the fair\nAnd open face of heaven,\u2014to breathe a prayer\nFull in the smile of the blue firmament.\nWho is more happy, when, with heart's content,\nFatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair\nOf wavy grass, and reads a debonair\nAnd gentle tale of love and languishment?\nReturning home at evening, with an ear\nCatching the notes of Philomel,\u2014an eye\nWatching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,\nHe mourns that day so soon has glided by:\nE'en like the passage of an angel's tear\nThat falls through the clear ether silently.", "The concrete hum fades into silence deep,\nWhere only wind and ancient oak trees keep\nA rhythm slow and steady as a heart,\nNo longer torn by city's frantic art.\n\nI breathe the air, so crisp it stings the lung,\nWith scents of pine where once the smoke was hung,\nAnd look above to skies of endless blue,\nThat stretch unbroken, vast and clear and true.\n\nA chorus rises from the hidden boughs,\nAs birdsong weaves its joy among the leaves,\nWhile time itself seems gently to allow\nThe heavy weight of urban life to eaves.\n\nThe sun dips low, a golden, slipping thread,\nThat steals the hours without a single sound,\nBefore I turn to walk the path ahead,\nLeaving this peace that I have newly found.\n\nThe road back calls, the day is gone too fast,\nYet in my chest a wilder sky remains,\nTo hold the memory of light so vast,\nUntil the next escape through rain or rains.", "The grey_EDGE of Edward\u00eds\nmap dissolved\nbehond killing\nears\nof\nnews\nreports\nthat\nwent\notherwise\nelse\nwhere\nto\nnot\nenter\nthe\nears\nof\nEdward\u00eds\nears\nelse\netcetera\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc", 1, "The concrete cage of morning fades\nBehind a hill of rolling green\nWhere sudden silence comes to stay\nAnd air tastes sharp and strangely keen\nNo sirens scream nor engines roar\nOnly the wind that sweeps and sighs\nIt rushes in to fill the lung\nBeneath an endless, azure sky\nA robin calls a liquid note\nFrom branches swaying in the breeze\nWhile clouds drift slow and white as sheep\nOver fields of flowering trees\nTime loses all its frantic grip\nAs hours melt like summer dew\nThe city waits but seems far off\nIn worlds both old and strange and new\nThen twilight dips her golden hand\nTo wash the edge of day away\nI walk back home with heart full\nBefore the stars begin their play\nReturning to the streetlamp glow\nWith earth still heavy on my feet\nCarrying the open sky\nBack to the busy, working street\nThe birds are silent now at last\nBut joy remains when daylight goes\nA secret held inside the breast\nWhere nature softly breathes and grows\nThe door clicks shut on country views\nOn fields of gold and hills of gray\nYet somewhere deep the wild lives on\nTo greet the coming of another day\nBefore the next great rush begins\nWhen morning bells will ring again\nI know the air I tasted well\nOutside the window and the pane\nReturns to me in dreams at night\nWhen city noises fall asleep\nAnd for a moment I am there\nAmong the hills and mountains steep\nWhere time stood still and wonder grew\nBefore the world began to spin\nLeaving a part of self behind\nTo let the countryside back in\nThe evening settles soft and low\nAs shadows stretch along the floor\nOne last look out the windowpane\nAt darkness gathering by the door\nReady for tomorrow's race\nReady for the weekday grind\nBut carrying the open road\nLeaving a little peace behind\nReturned to walls of brick and stone\nReturning from the wild and free\nWondering if perhaps some birds\nStill watch and listen patiently\nWaiting for the next escape\nWhen hands grow tired and hearts grow sore\nTo run once more toward the hills\nAnd taste the sweetness evermore\nOf breathing life unfiltered\nBy pipes or wires or steel\nJust man and earth and singing birds\nUnder skies that never feel\nConfined or small or hurried\nAlways wide and always bright\nCalling home to those who hear\nIn the middle of the night\nA memory of space and light\nThat lingers long after dark\nA flame that burns against the grey\nLong after returning home\nBack from nowhere\nComing back\nTo where it all began\nAgain\nAnd yet\nNot quite\nThe same\nAs before\nThe joy\nRemains\nStowed\nAway\nSafe\nInside\nThe\nHeart\nBeating\nSlow\nLike\nBird\nWings\nIn\nFlight\nOver\nFields\nOf\nGold\nFar\nAway\nFrom\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome\nReturning\nHome", 7, "Concrete ghosts dissolve in morning light\nAs tires hum a lullaby on gravel roads\nThe heavy air of traffic fades to dust\nReplaced by wind that carries no alarms\n\nA sudden breath, so sharp and sweet and cold\nFills lungs that knew only recycled smog\nAbove, the sky is not a grid of steel\nBut endless blue unbroken by a wire\n\nThen comes the song, a chaotic symphony\nOf thrush and sparrow weaving through the pines\nNo sirens scream to interrupt the note\nJust rhythm born of leaf and living branch\n\nI watch the clouds drift slow and lazy white\nWhile time itself seems stretched and soft and deep\nThe hours slip like water through my hands\nUnnoticed as the golden hour dies\n\nThe sun dips low behind the rolling hills\nAnd shadows lengthen on the grassy floor\nWith heart still full of wild and open space\nI turn the key to drive back home again", 6, "The concrete hum that lived inside my bones\nFell silent as the gravel road turned soft,\nAnd suddenly the heavy sky was gone,\nReplaced by clouds that drifted high and aloft.\nI breathed a lungful of unfiltered green,\nWhere scent of pine and damp earth filled the space,\nNo longer bound by steel and glass between,\nBut running wild in this wide, open place.\n\nA chorus rose from branches overhead,\nNot sirens wailing through the traffic jam,\nBut thrushes singing songs I hadn't heard\nSince childhood days before the city came.\nThe light poured down like liquid gold and warm,\nUpon the fields that stretched to endless blue,\nA quiet storm that tamed the inner storm,\nAnd made the world feel vast and strange and new.\n\nI watched the hours slip away unseen,\nWithout a clock to mark the passing time,\nJust shadows lengthening on emerald sheen,\nAs evening began its slow, soft climb.\nThe sun dipped low, a burning orange coin,\nTo signal home where streetlamps start to glow,\nYet in my chest, a wild heart still beats on,\nCarrying the sky wherever I go.", 6, "The concrete hum that filled my chest all week\nDissolves beneath a sky of endless blue,\nWhere silence breaks to let the wild birds speak\nAnd paints the morning in a sudden hue.\n\nI breathe the air so sharp and clean it stings,\nA tonic for the lungs grown used to gray,\nWhile golden light on rolling greenery sings\nOf days unmeasured by the clock's decay.\n\nNo traffic roars to cut the songbird's tune,\nJust wind that dances through the swaying grass,\nBeneath a vast and unforgiving moon\nThat waits beyond the shadow of the glass.\n\nI lose the hours watching clouds drift slow,\nForget the emails waiting in the dark,\nUntil the sun begins its evening glow\nAnd sets the distant hills ablaze with spark.\n\nThe road calls back as twilight starts to creep,\nThe city waits within its neon hold,\nBut I carry this quiet joy to keep,\nA pocketful of sky before I fold", 7, "The concrete hum fades into silence deep,\nAs asphalt turns to soil beneath my feet,\nWhere open skies stretch wide without a keep,\nAnd ancient trees make shadows soft and sweet.\n\nI breathe the air, so crisp and unconfined,\nNo exhaust fumes to choke the morning light,\nJust wild scents rising from the earth unkind,\nThat wash away the weight of city night.\n\nA chorus breaks the quiet with a song,\nOf sparrows darting through the emerald green,\nTheir melodies where I have gone so long,\nTo find a world both vibrant and unseen.\n\nI watch the clouds drift slowly past the sun,\nAnd lose all track of hours slipping by,\nUntil the golden hour is nearly done,\nBeneath the vast and ever-changing sky.\n\nThe shadow lengthens, signaling the end,\nOf days that felt too short to truly live,\nI turn to walk the path back to my friend,\nThe noisy street I must return to give.", 6, "The concrete hum fades into silence deep,\nAs asphalt turns to soil beneath my feet.\nNo longer bound by walls that rise so steep,\nI find the sky above is vast and sweet.\n\nThe air I breathe is crisp and unconfined,\nA sudden rush of green against the gray.\nNo traffic noise disturbs the quiet mind,\nJust sunlight spilling gold across the day.\n\nAbove me, larks ascend on wings of song,\nTheir melodies a thread through branches woven.\nI stand where time feels neither right nor wrong,\nBy nature's gentle rhythm gently driven.\n\nThe hours drift like clouds without a sound,\nWhile shadows lengthen on the grassy floor.\nI leave this peace upon the hallowed ground,\nTo walk back through the city's heavy door.", 7, "The concrete hum fades into silence deep,\nAs tangled vines replace the neon keep.\nI breathe a draft so clean it makes me reel,\nAnd feel the sun write gold upon my heal.\n\nAbove, the vast and velvet canopy expands,\nNo ceiling here to check within my hands.\nA chorus breaks beneath the azure spread,\nWhere sparrows sing what words can never said.\n\nSo lost in green, I let the clock dissolve,\nUntil the mist begins to make us evolve.\nThe day has slipped like water through my grip,\nYet now the shadow's cast across the lip.\n\nWith rustling leaves still echoing inside,\nI turn my weary, grateful frame to ride.", 6, "AI rewrite polish refine write expand rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [313, "ultra_held_out", "But He Was Cool, or: he even stopped for green lights by Haki R. Madhubuti", "Haki R. Madhubuti", "\"A poem about a Black man trying to fit into American society by acting cool and wearing imported items, while losing touch with his real roots and identity.\"", "super-cool\nultrablack\na tan/purple\nhad a beautiful shade.\nhe had a double-natural\nthat wd put the sisters to shame.\n&his beads were imported sea shells\n(from some blk/country i never heard of)\nhe was triple-hip.\nhis tikis were hand carved\nout of ivory\n&came express from the motherland.\nhe would greet u in swahili\n&say good-by in yoruba.\nwoooooooooooo-jim he bes so cool &ill tel li gent\ncool-cool is so cool he was un-cooled by other niggers' cool\ncool-cool ultracool was bop-cool/ice box cool so cool cold cool\nhis wine didn't have to be cooled, him was air conditioned cool\ncool-cool/real cool made me cool--now ain't that cool\ncool-cool so cool him nick-named refrigerator.\ncool-cool so cool\nhe didn't know,\nafter detroit, newark, chicago &c.,\nwe had to hip\ncool-cool/ super-cool/ real cool\nthat\nto be black\nis\nto be\nvery-hot.", "He buttons up the Italian silk to hide the sweat\nOf a body that remembers walking barefoot on red clay\nAdjusting the gold chain that weighs down his neck\nLike a heavy promise he cannot keep\nThe sneakers are limited edition, imported from Tokyo\nBut they make no sound on the pavement of his childhood street\nHe speaks in slang he heard on television\nA borrowed rhythm that trips over his own tongue\nForgetting the lullabies his grandmother hummed\nIn a dialect that sounds like rain on tin roofs\nHe laughs too loud at jokes that do not land\nTrying to prove he belongs in this room of glass and steel\nWhile the mirror shows a stranger wearing his face\nThe fabric is soft but it does not breathe\nIt chokes out the memory of the soil\nThat once held him when he fell\nNow he stands tall in designer shadows\nAfraid to take them off\nLest the world see the roots he tried to cut away\nAnd find nothing left but air", "He bought imported killing-edge\nfrom London counters\nselected his hair\nby catalogue pictures\nof famous dead\nmen who liked\nsharp edges\nmore \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "He buys the imported jacket from a city he has never seen\nStitched with labels in a language his tongue cannot speak\nSlick hair sprayed back to hide the texture of his heritage\nTrying on a coolness borrowed from a television screen\nHe laughs at jokes about home but says them too loud\nOverlooking the dirt roads where his father learned to walk\nSwapping earth for pavement, calling it progress\nCalling himself different when he only calls himself lost\nThe shoes are expensive leather from overseas\nBut they pinch the feet that grew up running barefoot\nHe admires his reflection in a window full of foreign goods\nWondering why the man looking back seems unfamiliar\nSearching for a root in imported soil\nWhile the tree he came from waits patiently\nFor him to stop dressing like a stranger\nAnd remember who he was before he bought his way\nIn\nHe wears the costume of belonging\nBut the buttons feel slippery\nSlipping off\nOne by one\nLeaving him naked\nNot in skin\nBut in spirit\nShivering\nIn\nA\nCountry\nThat\nAsked\nNothing\nOf\nHis\nSoul\nOnly\nHis\nWallet\nAnd\nHis\nPerformance\nOf\nCool\nWhile\nThe\nReal\nMan\nWatches\nFrom\nBehind\nHis\nOwn\nEyes\nWaiting\nTo\nCome\nHome\nAgain\nBut\nNot\nKnowing\nWhere\nThat\nPlace\nBegins\nAnymore\nExcept\nPerhaps\nIn\nThe\nSilence\nBetween\nNotes\nOf\nA\nSong\nHe\nUsed\nTo\nKnow\nBy\nHeart\nBefore\nHe\nLearned\nHow\nTo\nHide\nIt\nWell\nEnough\nTo\nPass\nAs\nAnyone\nElse\nWho\nDoes\nNot\nKnow\nWho\nThey\nReally\nAre\nEither\nBuying\nTime\nBuying\nSpace\nBuying\nAcceptance\nAll\nWhile\nLosing\nSelf\nSlowly\nLike\nWater\nDown\nA\nDrain\nCalled\nAmerica\nCalled\nSuccess\nCalled\nNormal\nCalled\nAnywhere\nBut\nThere\nWhere\nHe\nStarted\nCalled\nBack\nHome\nCalled\nRoots\nCalled\nTruth\nCalled\nEverything\nHe\nSold\nAway\nTo\nLook\nThis\nWay\nCool\nSharp\nSelected\n Imported\n Imported\n Imported\n Nothing\n Else\n Matters\n But\n The\n Label\n On\n His\n Back\n Saying\n Imported\n Imported\n Imported\n And\n He\n Believes\n It\n More\n Than\n His\n Own\n Name\n Calling\n Out\n To\n A\n Man\n Who\n Never\n Existed\n In\n Any\n Other\n Country\n Only\n Here\n Where\n Everyone\n Loses\n Themselves\n Trying\n To\n Win\n By\n Being\n Someone\n Else\n Entirely\n Cool\n Sharp\n Selected\n Imported\n Imported\n Imported\n Nothing\n Else\n Matters\n Except\n The\n Label\n On\n His\n Back\n Saying\n Imported\n Imported\n Imported\n And\n He\n Believes\n It\n More\n Than\n His\n Own\n Name\n Calling\n Out\n To\n A\n Man\n Who\n Never\n Existed\n In\n Any\n Other\n Country\n Only\n Here\n Where\n Everyone\n Loses\n Themselves\n Trying\n To\n Win\n By\n Being\n Someone\n Else\n Entirely\n Cool\n Sharp\n Selected\n Imported\n Imported\n Imported\n Nothing\n Else\n Matters\n Except\n The\n Label\n On\n His\n Back\n Saying\n Imported\n Imported\n Imported\n And\n He\n Believes\n It\n More\n Than\n His\n Own\n Name\n Calling\n Out\n To\n A\n Man\n Who\n Never\n Existed\n In\n Any\n Other\n Country\n Only\n Here\n Where\n Everyone\n Loses\n Themselves\n Trying\n To\n Win\n By\n Being\n Someone\n Else\n Entirely\n Cool\n Sharp\n Selected\n Imported\n Imported\n Imported\n Nothing\n Else\n Matters\n Except\n The\n Label\n On\n His\n Back\n Saying\n Imported\n Imported\n Imported\n And\n He\n Believes\n It\n More\n Than\n His\n Own\n Name\n Calling\n Out\n To\n A\n Man\n Who\n Never\n Existed\n In\n Any\n Other\n Country\n Only\n Here\n Where\n Everyone\n Loses\n Themselves\n Trying\n To\n Win\n By\n Being\n Someone\n Else\n Entirely\n Cool\n Sharp\n Selected\n Imported\n Imported\n Imported\n Nothing\n Else\n Matters\n Except\n The\n Label\n On\n His\n Back\n Saying\n Imported\n Imported\n Imported\n And\n He\n Believes\n It\n More\n Than\n His\n Own\n Name\n Calling\n Out\n To\n A\n Man\n Who\n Never\n Existed\n In\n Any\n Other\n Country\n Only\n Here\n Where\n Everyone\n Loses\n Thems", 2, "He buttons up a shirt from Milan\nthinking the fabric hides the doubt\nadjusts his glasses on a face\nthat feels too loud and far too out\nhe speaks in slang he heard on screens\nnot words his grandmother once knew\nand walks with stride of imported shoes\nthat pinch the feet but look brand new\nthe coolness is a heavy coat\nstitched from labels, foreign thread\nit warms him when the wind blows cold\nbut leaves his spirit feeling dead\nhe laughs at jokes he doesn't get\nto fit the room, to pass the test\nwhile roots that dug in African soil\nbegin to starve inside his chest\nhe buys the ice, he buys the car\nhe buys the mask that fits so well\nbut cannot hear the drumbeat now\nbeneath the city's concrete spell\nthe man he was is fading fast\nbehind the gloss of things he owns\na stranger in his own skin\nwearing a world that isn't home", 3, "He buttons up the Italian silk\nthat costs more than his father's truck\nand whispers slang he heard on TV\nto mask the dialect of home\nhis skin is dark as midnight oil\nbut he tries to paint it over\nwith a tan from a salon chair\nand sunglasses that hide the eyes\nof ancestors who crossed the sea\n\nHe drives a car with leather seats\nimported from a foreign land\nwhile the soil back in the village\ncracks under a different sun\nhe laughs at jokes he doesn't get\njust to keep the circle warm\nand nods when someone mentions names\nthat sound like music to his ears\nbut feel like foreign tongues today\n\nThe coolness is a heavy coat\nthat chokes the breath inside his chest\nhe forgets the rhythm of the drum\nthat used to beat within his blood\nreplaced by beats from radio waves\nthat tell him how to walk and speak\nhe buys a life he sees in glass\nand throws away the roots he grew\nuntil he stands alone in crowds\nwearing borrowed clothes\na stranger to himself\nforgetting who he was before\nthe world told him to be\nsomeone else entirely", 2, "He buttons up the silk from Lagos\nbut buys the tie in a Brooklyn shop\npretending the knot is ancient wisdom\nwhen it is just a trend he copied down.\nThe sneakers hum with imported sound\na frequency that drowns out the drum\nhis grandmother tapped on a wooden floor\nbefore the ocean took her home.\nHe speaks in slang that isn't his own\nmixing dialects like a cocktail drink\ntoasting to a ghost of coolness\nwhile forgetting how his ancestors walked.\nThe mirror shows a man made of labels\nimported logos stitched over skin\nthat remembers the soil and the sun\nbut now only knows the price tag.\nHe dances to a beat that isn't his\nswaying to a rhythm sold by strangers\nleaving the real song behind in the dust\nas he fades into the crowd he tries to join.\nCool is a mask that fits too tight\ncutting off the breath of who he was\nuntil the face beneath begins to blur\nand the roots turn dry and gray.", 2, "He buys the leather from Milan and the silk from Kyoto\nTying them tight around a neck that remembers the sun of the savannah\nA pair of shades so dark they hide the eyes that once watched the river flow\nHe walks with a swagger learned from screens, not from the soil below\n\nThe accent shifts to smooth the edges, to make the vowels round and light\nErasing the rhythm of the drum that used to guide him through the night\nHe speaks in slang that isn't his, a borrowed coat he cannot take off\nWhile the ancestors whisper softly beneath the weight of this heavy roof\n\nHe stands before the mirror checking the fit of a foreign brand's design\nWondering why the reflection feels like a stranger's outline\nThe coolness is a shield, a fortress built of imported stone and glass\nBut inside the silence grows louder as the seasons come and pass\n\nHe forgets the name of the village, the sound of the elder's song\nTrading the deep roots for shallow branches where the wind blows strong\nA polished surface gleaming bright under the American neon glow\nWhile the true self fades into the shadow, drifting further down below", 3, "He pulls the silk scarf tight around his neck,\na pattern woven in a distant land he barely knows,\nadjusting shades that reflect nothing but the neon street.\nThe boots are Italian leather, stitched for a different climate,\nclacking on pavement that feels too cold for bare feet.\n\nHe speaks with a cadence borrowed from movies,\nswapping the rhythm of the mother tongue for something smoother,\nsomething that might make the crowd nod in approval.\nHe laughs at jokes he does not understand,\nafraid that silence will reveal the quiet ache beneath the suit.\n\nThe gold chain is heavy, imported and gleaming,\nweighing down a chest that forgets how to beat in time with drums.\nHe walks past the old market where spices used to fill the air,\npretending the scent is just smoke, pretending he doesn't remember.\n\nIn the mirror, a stranger stares back, polished and perfect,\na man made of labels and foreign threads,\nwhile the deep roots inside him wither, unseen.\nHe is cool, they say, he is modern, he is new,\nbut when the music stops, there is no song left to sing.", 2, "He wraps the silk scarf tight around a neck that forgot the mist,\nBuys polish made in Milan just to make the mirror fix.\nThe rhythm changes now beneath his polished leather soles,\nReplacing drum beats with the synth of neon neon souls.\n\nThey tell him this is progress, this is how you make it here,\nSo silence fills the echo chambers where the elders used to speak.\nHe trades the deep bass hum for static on the radio,\nAnd lets the golden chains replace the wisdom they don't show.\n\nThe coat is tailored perfect, cut from threads across the sea,\nBut underneath the stitching, something ancient starts to flee.\nNo trace of soil beneath the nails, no scent of rain-soaked ground,\nJust brands upon the chest that make the reflection turn around.\n\nHe walks so smooth into the crowd, so cool, so unafraid,\nUntil the quiet moments break the mask that he has made.\nA question whispered soft within, can this refine create?\nOr is it just a mirror frame reflecting what is fake?", 5, 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1], [318, "ultra_held_out", "Homecoming by Simon Armitage", "Simon Armitage", "\"A poem about a child navigating the developing trust and relationships between parents and children.\"", "Think, two things on their own and both at once\nThe first, that exercise in trust, where those in front\nstand with their arms spread wide and free-fall\nbackwards, blind, and those behind take all the weight.\n\nThe second, one canary-yellow cotton jacket\non a cloakroom floor, uncoupled from its hook\nbecoming scuffed and blackened underfoot. Back home\nthe very model of a model of a mother, yours, puts\ntwo and two together, makes a proper fist of it\nand points the finger. Temper, temper. Questions\nin the house. You seeing red. Blue murder. Bed.\nThen midnight when you slip the latch and sneak\nno further than the call-box at the corner of the street;\nI'm waiting by the phone, although it doesn't ring\nbecause it's sixteen years or so before we'll meet.\nRetrace that walk towards the garden gate; in silhouette\na father figures waits there, wants to set things straight.\n\nThese ribs are pleats or seams. These arms are sleeves.\nThese fingertips are buttons, or these hands can fold\ninto a clasp, or else these fingers make a zip\nor buckle, you say which. Step backwards into it\nand try the same canary-yellow cotton jacket, there,\nlike this, for size again. It still fits.", "The door is open but the lock remains\nA heavy thing I do not yet understand\nYou hold my hand so tight it feels like pain\nThen loosen just enough to let me stand\n\nI watch you leave and wait for your return\nCounting the seconds on the kitchen wall\nIs this a game where I am meant to burn\nOr will you catch me if I start to fall\n\nYour voice is soft when shadows start to creep\nAnd promises are made in quiet tones\nBut sometimes silence makes the dark too deep\nAnd I am small within these unfamiliar zones\n\nYet morning comes with coffee in your cup\nAnd laughter breaks the tension of the night\nI learn that love is something built up\nNot given all at once but earned by light\n\nSo I step forward though my knees may shake\nTrusting the ground beneath my wandering feet\nKnowing that whatever choice I make\nYou'll be the harbor where my heart can meet", "Little feet learning\nto creep\nthen crawl\nthen rush\nalways back\nsometimes away\nfrom whom\nwho grew\nbeside\nyour crying\nwhose hair\nonce smelled\nof home\nand later\nof working\nelsewhere\nreturns\nwith\nempty\nhands\nthat\nopened\nall\nthe\nbuttons\nreturned\nby\nsize\nby\nsecret\nby\npicture\nby\nnews\nfrom\nnext\ndoor\nwho\nwent\nout\nnot\nback\nentered\nlater\nentered\nnever\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered\nentered", 1, "Small hands reach out to touch the edge\nof a table that seems too tall\nwhile big voices low and steady\ncall back from the kitchen wall\nat first the room was full of noise\na sudden rush of light\nthen one who smells like flour\nappeared to hold back fright\nbut sometimes when the shouting starts\nor silence stretches thin\nthe child hides behind the door\nand wonders where to begin\nto know if love is solid ground\nthat never slips away\nwhen feet are shaking on their own\nin middle of the day\nit grows in bits of offered bread\nin questions asked and heard\nin listening when nobody else\nhas said a single word\nfrom clinging close to crawling far\nfrom crying out to speaking\nthe map of who we are to whom\nis drawn by years of seeking\nnot all at once but inch by inch\nthe bridge begins to span\nbetween the little heart that doubts\nand hands reaching back again\nto say I am here\nto say you are safe\nto say we are learning\nhow to be whole\nby holding space\nfor all the doubt\nand all the joy\nthat comes\nwith growing\nup\ntogether\nnow\nand\nthen\nagain\nalways\nmore\nthan\nonce\nwe\nlearn\nto\ntrust\nby\nstarting\nover\nevery\ntime\nwe\ntry\nto\nunderstand\nwho\nwe\nare\nto\neach\nother\nin\nthis\nbig\nwide\nworld\nwhere\nlove\ntakes\npractice\nlike\nlearning\nto\nwalk\nor\ntalk\nor\nbreathe\nout\nloud\nwithout\nbeing\nafraid\nof\ngetting\nlost\namong\nthe\nshadows\nof\nour\nown\nsmall\nears\nthat\nhear\ntoo\nmuch\nsometimes\nand\nnot\nenough\nat\nothers\nstill\nwe\nreach\nout\nstill\nwe\ncome\nback\nhome\nto\nsee\nif\nthe\ndoor\nopens\nstill\nto\nsay\nhello\nto\nsay\ngoodbye\nto\nsay\nstay\n awhile\nbefore\ngoing\nout\nto\nplay\nor\nwork\nor\ndream\nor\nbe\nreal\nto\nknow\nthat\neven\nwhen\nwe\nstray\nthe\npath\nreturns\nus\nto\nthe\nstart\nof\nall\nthat\nmatters\nmost\nof\nall\ntwo\npeople\ntrying\nhard\nto\nbe\none\nheart\nthat\nbeats\nas\nmany\nparts\nof\nwho\nwe\nwere\nand\nwho\nwe\nbecome\nby\nlistening\nto\neveryone\nelse\nfirst\nthen\nto\nourselves\nlast\nof\nall\nin\nthe\nquiet\nspace\nbetween\nthe\nwords\nwe\nsay\nand\nthose\nwe\nleave\nunsaid\nwhere\ntrust\nlives\nsoft\nand\nslow\nand\nsure\nas\nsun\non\ngrass\nafter\nrain\nfalls\ndown\nto\nwash\naway\nthe\ndirt\nof\nyesterday\nand\nlet\nnew\nseeds\ngrow\nfree\nto\nreach\nfor\nsky\nand\ntouch\nthe\nground\nthat\nholds\nus\nboth\nin\nendless\nround\nof\ngiving\nand\ntaking\nback\nto\nstart\nthe\nnext\nstep\nforward\nnever\nlooking\nback\nexcept\nto\nsee\nhow\nfar\nwe\ncame\nto\nknow\nthat\nlove\nis\nnot\na\nthing\nthat\nstays\nbut\nmoves\nand\nchanges\nshape\nand\nsize\nand\nweight\nand\nfeels\nlike\nhome\nwhen\nall\nelse\nfails\nto\nhold\nits\nplace\nbeside\nthe\nnews\nof\nwho\nwe\nare\nand\nwho\nwe\nwill\nbecome\nto\nlive\nto\nlove\nto\nlearn\nto\nbe\nthe\nchild\nwho\nlearns\nto\nfly\nby\nknowing\nthat\nthe\nnet\nis\nthere\nto\ncatch\nus\nif\nwe\nfall\naway\nfrom\nall\nwe\nthought\nwe\nknew\nabout\nthe\nway\nthings\ngo\nabout\nthe\nway\nwe\nlove\nand\nlive\nand\ngrow\nto\nknow\nthat\ntrust\nis\nnot\na\nwall\nbut\nwindow\nopen\nwide\nto\nsee\nthe\nworld\noutside\nand\nfeel\nthe\nwarmth\nof\ninside\ncoming\nback\nto\nmeet\nus\nthere\nwhere\nwe\nbegin\nto\ncare\nabout\neach\nother\nmore\nthan\nself\nand\nfind\nour\nwhole\ntrue\nself", 3, "Small hands reach out to grasp a familiar face\nThen pull back when the shadow of a shout takes place\nThe floor is hard but your arms are soft and warm\nA shelter built from laughter and a gentle storm\n\nI watch you walk away to see if you return\nTo learn how much I matter and how much I yearn\nYou say you love me while you tidy up the toys\nBut silence holds a question that no one quite enjoys\n\nIs it safe to fall when I have learned to fly?\nCan I trust the ground or must I always try\nTo be the perfect child who never makes a sound\nWhile searching for the solid earth where roots are found\n\nOne day you laugh and catch me before I hit the grass\nAnd all the doubts dissolve like morning dew and grass\nThe bridge between us grows with every shared surprise\nFrom wondering looks to knowing in our eyes\nThat love is not a cage but an open door\nWhere I can be myself and ask for more\nNot less, not less, but everything we need\nTo plant a seed of confidence and grow a steady weed\nOf trust that holds us both when winds begin to blow\nA silent promise that we both will know\nWe are not alone in this long and winding road\nCarrying the heavy weight of joy and load\nTogether now, together still, through all the years\nWashing away the doubt and feeding all the fears\nWith patience and with time and words we do not speak\nFinding strength within the quiet that we seek\nTo understand the distance and the closeness too\nBetween the child who asks and parents who are true.", 6, "The door clicks shut and silence fills the hall\nA heavy weight that hangs above the bed\nI watch the shadow stretch across the wall\nAnd wonder if the words I said were red\n\nThey say they love me but their voices shake\nWhen I ask questions that have no clear end\nIt feels like walking on a frozen lake\nWhere ice might crack beneath a trembling friend\n\nSometimes the rules are walls of stone and brick\nThat keep the world outside from coming in\nBut other times, a hand will softly click\nTo open up a window to the din\n\nI learn to read the map of tired eyes\nTo know when trust is built and when it breaks\nIt is a slow and quiet compromise\nBetween the heart that heals and what it takes\n\nNo perfect guide exists to show the way\nThrough all the growing pains and sudden fears\nJust moments where we choose to stay and play\nAnd wash away the salt of ancient tears", 6, "The floor is cold beneath small feet\nThat learn to walk on shifting ground\nWhere promises are soft and sweet\nBut sometimes break without a sound\n\nI watch you turn your back to sleep\nAnd wonder if the door stays shut\nOr if the secrets that you keep\nAre meant to guard or build a hut\n\nYou hold my hand so tight at first\nThen pull away to test the air\nA silent, questioning, gentle thirst\nFor proof that love will always bear\n\nThe weight of trust is heavy now\nToo big for shoulders yet so small\nIt builds a quiet, steady bow\nBetween the wall and standing tall\n\nOne day I'll know when you return\nNot just to hide but to be near\nTo see the lesson slowly burn\nThat trust is built when fears disappear", 6, "The floor is cold beneath my bare feet\nbut your hand is warm and steady there\nI reach out with a trembling palm\ntesting the weight of air you make\n\nYou promise the sky will not fall\nif I let go of the chair\nand so I take one wobbly step\nthen two, into the space we share\n\nSometimes your voice is loud like thunder\nwhen I break the toy or spill the milk\nand I shrink small inside my coat\nafraid the bridge has turned to silk\n\nBut then you kneel to meet my eyes\nand wipe the tear I did not mean to cry\nsaying mistakes are just the path\nwhere trust begins to grow and try\n\nIt is a quiet thing, this building\nbrick by brick in every day\nthe way you listen when I whisper\nthe way you stay when I am gray\n\nI learn that love is not a cage\nbut wings that wait until I'm ready to fly\nso I walk forward, brave and slow\nknowing you will catch me if I die", 6, "Small hands reach out to test the air\nAbove a floor that feels so wide\nWith footsteps slow and unsure there\nUntil a voice says wait inside\n\nI watch you turn your back to check\nThe shadow cast against the wall\nA silent pact, a quiet wreck\nOf trust I build before I fall\n\nYou teach me how to let go first\nTo climb the chair and touch the light\nWhile holding fast the gentle curve\nOf safety in your arms at night\n\nSometimes I push, sometimes I cry\nTo see if love will hold its ground\nAnd though the world can make me shy\nYour steady gaze is what I've found\n\nSo here I stand between the two\nThe known and all I dare to seek\nLearning the shape of something new\nThat makes the strong feel soft and weak", 6, "I test the floor beneath my bare soles to find the give,\nAnd check the sky above for signs of rain.\n\nMom's voice is a warm thread I wrap around my wrist,\nUntil I pull too tight and break the pattern.\n\nDad's silence is a heavy coat I put on without help,\nTo keep the draft out until I forget how to breathe.\n\nI drop the toy across the room just to see you run,\nJust to make sure the world does not dissolve into mist.\n\nYou promise forever with eyes that change shape,\nSo I write contracts in scribbles you can rewrite.\n\nThe trust is built like sandcastles against the tide,\nWatched carefully, reshaped, and left alone.", 2, "So small I make mistake create reform rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [323, "ultra_held_out", "Ode on Solitude by Alexander Pope", "Alexander Pope", "\"A poem about a man preferring the simple pleasures of solitary rural life, tending his land and herds through the seasons, over fame, luxury, and the company of others.\"", "Happy the man, whose wish and care\nA few paternal acres bound,\nContent to breathe his native air,\nIn his own ground.\nWhose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,\nWhose flocks supply him with attire,\nWhose trees in summer yield him shade,\nIn winter fire.\nBlest, who can unconcernedly find\nHours, days, and years slide soft away,\nIn health of body, peace of mind,\nQuiet by day,\nSound sleep by night; study and ease,\nTogether mixed; sweet recreation;\nAnd innocence, which most does please,\nWith meditation.\nThus let me live, unseen, unknown;\nThus unlamented let me die;\nSteal from the world, and not a stone\nTell where I lie.", "The city calls with bells of gold and streets of polished stone,\nBut I have found a quieter throne beneath the willow's shade.\nLet others chase the fleeting praise that fades like morning mist,\nWhile I count blessings in the dust where silent hours exist.\n\nMy kingdom is this rolling hill, my crown the rising sun,\nWhere work begins before the dawn and ends when day is done.\nNo silk to wear against the wind, no feast of spiced delight,\nJust bread baked from my own hard grain and stars that pierce the night.\n\nThrough spring I watch the lambs take form, their wool soft as a cloud,\nAnd summer heats the golden wheat above the grazing crowd.\nIn autumn, when the frost arrives, I gather in the store,\nThen watch the winter silence fall upon the frozen floor.\n\nI need no hand to shake in greeting, no voice to fill the air,\nFor nature speaks a language deep that only I can share.\nThe cowherd's song, the rustling grass, the river's steady flow,\nAre riches that no merchant king could ever hope to know.\n\nSo let them dance in gilded halls and seek the bright acclaim,\nI'll tend my simple, sacred land and never know their name.\nFor in this solitude I find a peace they cannot buy,\nBeneath the vast and open sky where honest shepherds lie.", "He hears no \u2013\n\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The city calls with bells of brass and gold\nTo men who chase a shadow on the wall\nBut I have found a wealth far more untold\nIn silence where the autumn shadows fall\nNo laurel wreath nor scepter held by kings\nNor crowded halls where hollow laughter rings\nCan match the breath of morning dew and grass\nWhere winter snows lie soft and slow to pass\nMy hands are rough from digging in the earth\nFrom guiding sheep and watching over herds\nA quiet joy in all their daily birth\nFar from the clamor of ambitious birds\nLet others drink from cups of poisoned wine\nAnd seek applause in theater or mine\nI watch the seasons turn their ancient wheel\nWith nothing else but sky and soil to feel\nWhen summer heat drives cattle to the shade\nOr spring returns to wash the hills in green\nMy heart is never by such cares invaded\nNor tempted by the sights that pompous seem\nFor fame is but a rumor on the wind\nThat blows away before the day begins\nWhile here the steady rhythm of the years\nConfirms all happiness consists of tears\nWashed off by rain and worked by calloused hands\nReturning home when evening softly demands\nA simple hearth, a roof of thatch and wood\nEnough for one man living as he should\nAway from crowds who buy and sell and lie\nBeneath the vast and uncomplaining sky\nWhere God speaks loud in birds and blowing trees\nAnd offers peace to those who bend to seize\nNot crowns or riches from a distant shore\nBut just the land and all it holds in store\nThis life is rich enough to satisfy\nAll hunger that the lonely soul denies\nWho knows the weight of earth and not of fame\nAnd finds his glory in a shepherd's name\nNot shouted out to none who care to hear\nBut whispered low and lovingly and near\nBy roots that hold him fast to working ground\nWhere truest joy and lasting bliss are found\nWithout a witness but the setting sun\nTo mark the work of one who has gotten\nMore than all the world could ever sell\nIn fields he loves and tends and knows quite well\nAlone yet whole among his grazing kin\nWhere all he needs and all he wants lies in\nThe sweep of arm and sight of coming night\nFilled only up by stars and pale moonlight\nHe asks no more nor envies other men\nWho live by rules he hardly understands\nHis kingdom stretches from the hilltop down\nTo where he plants his solitary crown\nOf dirt and hay and sweat and honest pain\nThat bears a fruit unlike any other grain\nIt feeds the spirit rather than the eye\nAs clouds go sailing slowly past the blue\nWatching the world go by\nWhile he stays here\nTending his own\nSimple and clear\nAway from all\nThe busy roar\nHe locks his door\nOn fame and poor\nRich things\nOnly\nHis\nSoul\nSings\nLow\nFree\nTo\nGrow\nSlow\nSteady\nWhole\nNo\nOther\nPart\nOf\nMan\nLike\nThat\nIn\nGod\nWho\nSaw\nIt\nFirst\nAnd\nCalled\nIt\nGood\nIn\nRural\nGrass\nWhere\nNone\nElse\nEver\nPassed\nSave\nWind\nAnd\nTime\nIn\nMeasure\nMild\nBy\nShepherd\nChild\nWho\nLoved\nHis\nHill\nEnough\nTo\nKill\nHis\nOwn\nDesire\nFor\nHigher\nThings\nOf\nGilded\nWalls\nAnd\nCalling\nCalls\nThat\nNever\nStop\nTheir\nBusy\nBall\nOf\nFolly\nFull\nOf\nEmpty\nDust\nWhile\nHe\nReturns\nTo\nTrusting\nTrust\nIn\nEarth\nWhich\nAlways\nKnows\nHow\nMuch\nA\nMan\nNeeds\nSimply\nSuch\nAs\nThis\nOne\nLife\nOf\nWorking\nBliss\nNo\nMore\nAsked\nLess\nDenied\nIn\nHide\nOf\nWood\nWhere\nSecret\nGood\nLies\nBuried\nDeep\nWhile\nOthers\nSleep\nIn\nCouch\nOf\nDown\nHe\nCounts\nHis\nSheep\nAnd\nSees\nHis\nTown\nIs\nAll\nHe\nViews\nIn\nMorning\nDews\nAnd\nEvening\nSkys\nWhere\nTruth\nNot\nLies\nAre\nClearly\nSeen\nBetween\nThese\nTrees\nThat\nWhisper\nLow\nAbout\nHow\nLittle\nMen\nMust\nKnow\nTo\nBe\nAt\nPeace\nWith\nThemselves\nAnd\nGod\nAlong\nThis\nRoad\nThat\nNobody\nRoams\nExcept\nThose\nWho\nHave\nLeft\nHome\nBehind\nTo\nSeek\nA\nQuiet\nSort\nof\nMind\nThat\nDoes\nNot\nBeg\nFor\n\u638c\u58f0\n(Attention)\nNor\nWe", 7, "The city calls with bells of brass and gold\nTo men who seek the applause of crowds\nBut I have found a quieter story told\nIn wind that sweeps across the summer clouds\nMy wealth is not in silks or heavy crowns\nNor in the praise of those who never know\nHow earth feels soft beneath my working hands\nOr how the winter snow begins to fall\nI watch the sheep move slow through morning dew\nAnd feel no need for parties loud and bright\nNo banquet hall where hollow laughter grew\nCan match the stars that guide me through the night\nLet others chase the fleeting fame of kings\nWhile I tend fields that feed my simple soul\nHere silence rings like any bell it brings\nAnd makes the broken spirit whole\nThe seasons turn in cycles old and true\nFrom spring's first green to autumn's harvest sheaf\nThere is no greater joy than what I do\nBeyond the reach of envy or of grief\nSo let them keep their cities and their noise\nTheir crowded streets and lives of constant care\nI choose the pasture and the grazing boys\nThe scent of hay and clean and cooling air\nA single hut, a herd, and open sky\nIs all the luxury I ever need\nWatching the silent birds go floating by\nWhile planting seeds for future years to feed\nNo king has ever owned a heart so free\nAs mine which finds its home in dirt and stone\nContent to live as wild and wilder bee\nWho knows no master but the land alone", 7, "The city calls with gilded bells and crowds\nOf voices raised in praise of hollow things,\nBut I have found a quieter, truer shroud\nIn morning mist where silent river sings.\n\nLet others chase the laurel wreath and gold\nAnd feast on banquets served by trembling hands;\nMy wealth is in the soil, quietly told,\nBy furrows cut across these ancient lands.\n\nWhen spring arrives to wake the sleeping seed,\nI walk alone among the waking green,\nNo need for flattery or human creed\nTo make this quiet morning feel serene.\n\nThe summer sun burns bright upon my back\nAs I guide sheep to slopes of cooling shade,\nThere is no king who knows such peace as lack\nOf all the noise that fame has ever made.\n\nAutumn brings the harvest, rich and deep,\nA bounty earned by sweat and honest toil,\nWhile others in their towers fall asleep\nBeneath a roof of worry and of spoil.\n\nThen winter comes to wrap the world in white,\nAnd herds are gathered close against the cold,\nI light my fire and watch the dying light\nAnd find a story that needs not be told.\n\nSo let them keep their parties and their praise,\nTheir crowded rooms and masks of painted skin;\nI choose the stars that mark the endless days,\nAnd love the world that only I know well within.", 7, "The city calls with bells of brass and gold\nAnd whispers of a name that echoes loud,\nBut I would trade the throne for this small fold\nBeneath the quiet shadow of a cloud.\n\nLet others feast on silk and silver ware\nWhile I find joy in soil beneath my nail,\nTo watch the morning mist hang in the air\nAnd feel the honest weight of winter's hail.\n\nMy herds move slow across the greenest hill,\nA rhythm older than the crowded street,\nWhere silence is the only voice I'll fill\nAnd time moves measured by the grazing feet.\n\nNo banquet hall can match the evening fire\nThat warms my hands as stars begin to gleam,\nNo crowd can offer such a deep desire\nAs walking through the fields within a dream.\n\nSo let them chase the praise of fleeting men\nAnd build their towers high upon the sand,\nI'll keep the peace that comes from earth again,\nThe simple lord of all this quiet land.", 7, "The city calls with golden bells and lights that never sleep,\nBut I prefer the quiet hum where ancient willows weep.\nLet kings keep their velvet thrones and merchants count their gold,\nMy wealth is in the morning mist and stories left untold.\n\nNo banquet hall can match the taste of bread baked from my grain,\nOr silver coins compare to dew that falls upon the plain.\nI walk alone through rows of corn as summer turns to fall,\nAnd answer only to the wind that whispers through the wall.\n\nMy herd moves slow across the hill beneath a starry sky,\nWhile crowds below chase fleeting trends and watch the seasons die.\nThey seek the noise of crowded streets and faces made of stone,\nI find my kin in rustling grass and seeds I've carefully sown.\n\nWhen winter wraps the world in white and silence fills the air,\nI sit by firelight, warm and safe, with nothing but to share.\nNo fame could buy this peace of mind, no luxury replace,\nThe simple rhythm of the land within this quiet space.", 7, "The city's roar is a distant ghost,\nA hum I choose to forget,\nFor here the wind has no need for words,\nAnd silence is the only debt.\n\nI trade the velvet throne for straw,\nThe silk for woolen rough,\nWhere gold is found in morning dew,\nNot in a gilded puff.\n\nLet others chase the flashing light,\nThe crowd's loud, hollow cheer,\nI find my kingdom in the soil,\nMy crown within the year.\n\nIn spring, I wake before the sun,\nTo check the newborn lamb,\nWhile kings may sleep until noon,\nAnd miss the misty calm.\n\nThe summer heat upon my back,\nIs sweeter than their shade,\nFor every furrow turned by hand,\nIs a promise that is made.\n\nWhen autumn paints the oak in rust,\nAnd geese take flight above,\nI need no feast of roasted meats,\nJust apples and pure love.\n\nThe winter fire crackles low,\nAgainst the frozen pane,\nNo banquet hall could match this peace,\nOr ease the mind's deep strain.\n\nSo let them keep their noisy halls,\nTheir titles, wealth, and pride,\nI walk alone with earth and sky,\nWith nothing left to hide.", 6, "The crown of gold is heavy on the brow,\nBut I prefer the mist that wraps this hill,\nWhere silence makes a quiet, holy vow,\nAnd time moves slow beneath the willow's chill.\n\nLet others chase the echo in the hall,\nAnd feast until their weary eyes expand,\nI answer to the humble, gentle call,\nOf turning soil within my weathered hand.\n\nMy palace is the barn with drafty walls,\nMy throne the stool beside the morning fire,\nNo velvet robe against the winter's thralls,\nJust woolen cloaks and calm, deep respiration's tire.\n\nThe city lights can fade into the dark,\nFor I find stars above my grazing flock,\nNo need for polish, polish, or reply, save bark,\nOr rustling reeds along the winding rock.\n\nSo let them write my name upon the stone,\nI write my legacy in furrowed grain,\nA kingdom made entirely alone,\nRewarded by the rain, the sun, again.", 6, "Let make\u5e2e rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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Endymion wrote\nTo one he loved in secret, and apart.\nAnd now the brawlers of the auction mart\nBargain and bid for each poor blotted note,\nAy! for each separate pulse of passion quote\nThe merchant\u2019s price. I think they love not art\nWho break the crystal of a poet\u2019s heart\nThat small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.\nIs it not said that many years ago,\nIn a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran\nWith torches through the midnight, and began\nTo wrangel for mean raiment, and to throw\nDice for the garments of a wretched man,\nNot knowing the God\u2019s wonder, or His woe?", "The gavel falls like a judge's final breath\nUpon the paper where your heart once bled,\nSold to the highest bidder in this death\nOf privacy, by greed and silence fed.\nThey do not read the ink that trembled there,\nNor feel the pulse of love you tried to keep,\nBut count the cost with cold and empty air,\nAnd strip the soul before they fall asleep.\n\nJust as the soldiers cast their lots for Christ,\nDividing up the seamless robe of grace,\nThese modern wolves have made their darkly bright\nBet on the fragments of a sacred face.\nThey gamble over words meant only two,\nIgnoring how the poet's spirit bled,\nWhile I stand weeping for the truth you knew,\nNow scattered among those who never read.", "The bidding pennances a library\nof tender things locked in poor man otherwise\nwhere Robert Edward \u2013\nRobert \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward 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\u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 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\u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward", 1, "The hammer falls with a sickening crack\nOn envelopes sealed by trembling hands\nWhere ink bled out like confession\nIn the dark hours before dawn\nNow thrown to bidding wolves\nWho care not for the tremor of the line\nOnly the novelty of private grief\nDisplayed in glass cases\nLike fish bought and sold\nWhile the poor man who lived\nThese lines in his marrow\nScreams from an invisible grave\nHow easily he was stripped\nNot by death but by greed\nAs soldiers once laughed\nOver linen dipped in blood\nRolling dice for a garment\nThat covered God himself\nWe watch these new barbarians\nToss pennies for his soul\nBuying scraps of devotion\nTo those who cannot read\nThe language of a broken heart\nAnd call it all\nJust property\nTo be counted\nSold\nDestroyed\nBy those who see\nNothing\nBut\nPrice\nTags\nOn\nHoly\nThings\nChrist\nwas\nnot\nmore\nviolated\nthan\nhis\npoem\nby\nthe\nclick\nof\nthe\ngavel\nthat\nsays\nmine\nto\none\nwho\nnever\nloved\nat\nall\nwhile\nwe\nstand\nsilent\nas\nwitness\nto\nthe\nsecond\ncrucifixion\nof\na\nman\nwhose\nonly\ncrime\nwas\nfeeling\ntoo\nmuch\nfor\nthose\nwho\nfeel\nnothing\nbut\ncash\nin\ntheir\npockets\nand\nemptiness\nwhere\nbeauty\nshould\nhave\nbeen\nkept\nsafe\nfrom\nsuch\ncarnage\nof\ncommerce\nwhere\nlove\nbecomes\ninventory\nand\ntears\nare\nliquid\nassets\nspent\nby\nhands\nthat\nnever\nknew\nhow\nto\nhold\nanything\nsoft\nor\ntrue\nbefore\nthey\nsold\nit\noff\nto\nbuy\nmore\ntime\nwith\nno\nmemory\nof\nwhy\nhe\nwrote\nit\ndown\nat\nall\nexcept\nto\nsay\nhe\nwas\nthere\nonce\nalive\nand\naching\nnow\njust\nanother\nlot\nnumber\npassed\nover\nby\nmen\nwho\nthink\nthat\neverything\nhas\nits\ncost\neven\nwhen\nit\ncomes\nfrom\nGod\nor\nfrom\nthe\nheart\nof\nChrist\nhimself\nwho\nalso\nhad\nhis\ngarments\ndivided\nby\nlots\namong\nthose\nwho\ncould\nnot\nsee\nthe\nbody\nunderneath\nonly\nthe\nfabric\nto\nwin\nby\nchance\nor\nby\nrich\nbid\nwhile\nthe\nreal\nvalue\nwent\nunnoticed\nby\nall\nwho\nwere\nbusy\ncounting\nup\ntheir\nspoils\ninstead\nof\nweeping\nfor\nthe\nsource\nof\nall\nthat\nwas\ntaken\naway\nfrom\nus\nby\nsuch\ncasual\nevil\ndisguised\nas\nbusiness\nas\nalways\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse\nwhere\nelse", 2, "The gavel falls like a hammer on a skull\nAnd bids the soul of her who loved him best\nTo be sold to men who see only the cost\nNot the ink that bled from his trembling hand\nAcross the page where secrets were confessed.\nThey raise their paddles with greedy, hollow eyes\nBuying silence bought by those who cannot hear\nThe music hidden in the paper's crease\nWho care not for the heart but for the tear\nThat might fetch a price at some cold auctioneer.\nIt is the same old game played out again\nAs Roman soldiers gambled over Christ's clothes\nDividing up the garments of the dead\nWhile he hung dying on the wood above\nIgnoring all the sacred things they tore\nJust as these vultures strip the poet bare\nTo feed their appetite for trivial gain\nLeaving nothing but the empty air\nWhere once a love was written, pure and plain\nNow scattered like the dice upon the floor\nBy those who do not know what art is worth\nAnd have no reverence for the life he poured\nInto the words that meant more than earth\nBut are now just goods to be bought and sold\nLike rags divided while the spirit rots\nIn the dust of history, forgotten and old\nBy those who never saw the light he got\nFrom loving her, and writing it all down\nBefore the auctioneer came to take his crown\nOf coins collected from the ignorant crowd\nWho laugh and bid while all the world grows loud\nWith noise that drowns the whisper of the grave\nAnd leaves the lover with no one to save\nHer memory from the hands that sell her name\nFor pennies spent by those who lack the flame\nTo understand the beauty of the pain\nThat drove him to write love in every vein\nOf paper torn by time and careless hands\nWhile strangers walk through holy, sacred lands\nWithout a glance at what they trample on\nThe poetry of love that should live on\nBut dies today beneath the hammer's blow\nAs soldiers cast their lots for what they know\nNot how to value, nor how to respect\nThe very thing that made the poet wreck\nHis own heart open for the world to see\nNow owned by none who cares enough to be\nA guardian of such fragile, tender things\nBut rather buyers with indifferent wings\nWho fly away with treasures they can't hold\nLeaving the story broken and unold\nLike robes divided on a hill of grief\nWhere laughter sounds like madness and relief\nIs nowhere found among the bidding crowd\nWho shout their numbers loud and far too proud\nTo hear the poet crying in his sleep\nAs private vows are dug from out the deep\nAnd tossed to sharks who swim in money seas\nWhile all the world applauds their cruelty\nThinking it culture, thinking it art\nWhen really it is just a tearing part\nOf something whole that should have stayed intact\nLike Christ's own tunic, torn and ripped apart\nBy those who cared less for the man inside\nThan for the fabric that he wore with pride\nSo here we watch the final sale begin\nAs love turns into profit and then sin\nAgainst the memory of the one who wrote\nThose letters meant for her, not for the note\nOf highest bidder in a room of greed\nWho plant a funeral flower for the deed\nOf selling off the most intimate prayer\nTo those who have no hairpin left to care\nAbout the soul that lived within the lines\nBut only about how much the paper shines\nUnder the lights of commerce and of hate\nAs if a poet's heart were merely date\nOn which to bet, or stock to buy and sell\nA tragic end to such a beautiful hell\nOf human folly playing out its part\nOnce more dividing up the poet's heart\nLike soldiers gambling for a garment's skin\nWhile God himself watches the loss begin\nAnd wonders why we always choose the gold\nInstead of stories that are brave and old\nEnough to teach us how to love and live\nBut no, we sell and sell and never give\nBack to the dead the privacy they sought\nAnd leave them with the lessons we have taught\n ourselves about our poverty of soul\nThat drives us to destroy what makes us whole\nBy selling off the pieces of the past\nTo those who will not let the moments last\nBut throw them in a drawer and lock the key\nAway from anyone who wants to see\nThe truth of love that died before its time\nAnd sold itself to pay for crime\nOf being born too sensitive and true\nFor people who would rather buy than view\nThe sacred text of passion and of pain\nWhich now belongs to someone else again\nWho does not know the weight of every word\nOr how the poet's voice was softly heard\nIn quiet rooms when all the world was still\nBefore the auctioneer came with his skill\nTo turn a lifetime of devotion rare\nInto a commodity and square\nOf space in an exhibition hall\nWhere", 6, "The gavel falls like a hammer on bone\nIn a room where the air smells of money and dust,\nWhile ink-stained confessions of a broken heart\nAre sold to the highest bidder among the unjust.\nThey bid for the paper that held his trembling hand,\nFor the words meant only for one gentle ear,\nBut the crowd sees no soul in the faded command,\nOnly a trophy to hang on a wall far from here.\n\nIt is not so different from Golgotha's hill,\nWhere soldiers cast lots for the robe on the dead,\nDividing the fabric with laughter and chill,\nIgnoring the life that had bled and had fled.\nThose Roman coins clinked against skin made divine,\nAs they gambled away what was sacred and whole,\nJust as these strangers now cross every line\nTo purchase the fragments of someone else's soul.\n\nThe poet lies silent, his privacy torn,\nHis love turned to currency, cold and unclean,\nA garment of grief by the vulgar has worn,\nBy those who have never seen beauty unseen.\nThey do not know why he wrote or for whom,\nThey do not feel the ache in the margin or space,\nThey only want something to buy at a room\nAnd wear it like armor to hide their own face.\n\nSo let them take all of the letters and ink,\nLet them count out their gold for the pain he confessed,\nFor the world will always be ready to drink\nFrom the cup of the holy, then throw it aside to the rest.\nThe clothes are divided, the spirit remains,\nLost in the noise of the auctioneer's cry,\nWhile the truest of loves turns to profit and chains,\nAnd the silence of God watches everyone die.", 6, "The gavel falls with hollow, wooden sound\nUpon the desk where quiet ink once dried,\nAs strangers bid for words that love had bound,\nWith hearts too coarse to keep them safe inside.\n\nThey do not read the tremor in the line,\nThe sacred ache of verses left unsent,\nBut trade them like a vintage bottle of wine,\nTo those who see no soul, but only rent.\n\nLike Roman soldiers by the cross they stood,\nWho cast their lots for garments stripped away,\nThey gamble now on fragments misunderstood,\nAnd turn the holy vestments into play.\n\nThe tunic torn was woven from his pain,\nThe letters stitched with whispers soft and deep,\nYet sold to men who seek to own the stain,\nWhile Christ-like silence watches from the steep.\n\nNo reverence marks the hammer's rising hand,\nNo prayer is said before the price is set,\nJust greed that claims the beauty of the land,\nAnd leaves the poet's heart in cold regret.", 6, "The gavel strikes a hollow, final sound\nUpon the desk where ink once bled its truth,\nWhile strangers bid with greed that knows no bound\nTo own the fragments of a poet's youth.\n\nThey do not read the verses written deep,\nNor feel the pulse beneath the paper grain,\nBut hoard the secrets meant for sleep,\nAnd trade in love like merchandise and gain.\n\nOh, cruel fate, this modern, cold decree,\nThat turns the heart into a commodity.\nJust as the soldiers cast their lots to see\nWho might possess the robe of divinity,\n\nSo now these gamblers split the sacred thread,\nIgnoring how the words were softly spun,\nTo claim the garments of the living dead,\nBeneath a pale and uncomprehending sun.\n\nThey fight for scraps of intimacy's fire,\nUnaware they hold a soul within their grasp,\nA holy text reduced to base desire,\nAs silence falls upon the auction's clasp.", 6, "The gavel falls like stone upon the quiet dust,\nWhere ink once bled for eyes that will not see,\nNow strangers bid with greed in their eyes,\nFor scraps of soul they cannot parse or keep.\n\nThey do not know the rhythm of the ache,\nThe way a comma held a breath so long,\nOr how a single word could make the world expand,\nTo them it is just paper, old and thin.\n\nSo here we stand as Rome stood at the cross,\nWhile soldiers cast their dice for woven thread,\nDividing up the garment of the light,\nAnd laughing at the price of sacred skin.\n\nThose Roman hands tore flesh to find the gold,\nThese modern hands tear verse to find the cost,\nIgnoring that the poet's heart was stitched within,\nA seamless robe of love now lost to noise.\n\nThey gamble on the weight of whispered vows,\nAs if the ink were merely leaden coin,\nUnaware they strip the wound right open wide,\nAnd leave the ghost to shiver in the cold.", 6, "The gavel falls with final, hollow sound,\nTo split the paper where your whispered truth resounds.\nNow strangers raise their paddles, check their price,\nAnd trade the cadence of your deep divide.\n\nThey parse the ink for value, make a score,\nOf sacred scribbles meant to please no one but you.\n\nJust so beneath the cross, the legions stood,\nDividing woven robes into crude food.\n\nWith dice they cast upon the dust and stone,\nFor threads that wrapped the flesh made flesh alone.\n\nSo now this parchment, stitched with gentle rhyme,\nIs parceled out to make a profit's time.\n\nNo art is left within this greedy game,\nJust fabric sold without a single name.", 6, " rewrite", 7], [327, "ultra_held_out", "The Express by Stephen Spender", "Stephen Spender", "\"A poem about an express train leaving the station and gathering momentum, becoming increasingly out of sync with its surroundings and symbolising unstoppable societal progress that may be harming ordinary people.\"", "After the first powerful plain manifesto\nThe black statement of pistons, without more fuss\nBut gliding like a queen, she leaves the station.\nWithout bowing and with restrained unconcern\nShe passes the houses which humbly crowd outside,\nThe gasworks and at last the heavy page\nOf death, printed by gravestones in the cemetery.\nBeyond the town there lies the open country\nWhere, gathering speed, she acquires mystery,\nThe luminous self-possession of ships on ocean.\nIt is now she begins to sing\u2014at first quite low\nThen loud, and at last with a jazzy madness\u2014\nThe song of her whistle screaming at curves,\nOf deafening tunnels, brakes, innumerable bolts.\nAnd always light, aerial, underneath\nGoes the elate metre of her wheels.\nSteaming through metal landscape on her lines\nShe plunges new eras of wild happiness\nWhere speed throws up strange shapes, broad curves\nAnd parallels clean like the steel of guns.\nAt last, further than Edinburgh or Rome,\nBeyond the crest of the world, she reaches night\nWhere only a low streamline brightness\nOf phosphorus on the tossing hills is white.\nAh, like a comet through flame, she moves entranced\nWrapt in her music no bird song, no, nor bough\nBreaking with honey buds, shall ever equal.", "The whistle cuts the morning mist\nA silver serpent uncoils its length\nThe wheels begin their rhythmic hiss\nAnd swallow up the station's strength\n\nAt first the platform stands so still\nWith faces pressed against the glass\nBut soon the blur begins to kill\nThe quiet moments as they pass\n\nThe trees outside turn into lines\nThe fields dissolve to streaks of green\nWe leave behind the old designs\nFor speeds no human heart has seen\n\nThe rhythm builds a deafening roar\nThat drowns the voices on the street\nIt does not wait for those who pour\nTheir weary lives beneath its feet\n\nIt rushes past the broken home\nWhere time moves slow and shadows grow\nIt leaves the silence far alone\nTo where the frantic engines blow\n\nNo brake can hold this iron will\nAs progress tears the fabric wide\nIt climbs the hill and crushes still\nThe fragile things we cannot hide\n\nWe are the dust the wheels have raised\nBy momentum swept away\nWhile in our haste, we lose all phases\nOf what it means to live today", "The killing pennantine dips\nthen shrieks a hair-edge warning\nof coming killing pennantine\nthat none attended\nOnly Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward", 1, "The hiss of brakes dissolves\nAs the iron beast inhales\nA sudden rush of white\nThat blurs the edge of platform\nWhere a man in worn shoes\nWatches his daughter wave\nBefore the windows\nStretch her face\nThen snap her back\nTo nothing but a smear\nof grey and fleeting skin\nThe wheels begin to pound\nA rhythm not our own\nIt shakes the earth\nBut leaves our feet\nRooted in the dust\nWe are getting older\nWhile the city races\nPast us in a blur\nOf glass and steel\nthat never stops\nto ask who fell behind\nThe station shrinks\nTo a toothpick\nIn a landscape\nRipped by speed\nThe air grows thin\nWith exhaust\nand promises\nof somewhere else\nwhere everyone\nis moving\nbut none\nare arriving\nat all\nOnly the track\nOnly the roar\nOnly the crushing\nforward\nforce\nthat cares\nnot\nfor\nwho\nit\ncrushes\non\nthe\nway\nto\ntomorrow\nwhich\nhas\nalready\npassed\nus\nby\nlong\nago\nwhile\nwe\nwere\nstill\nlearning\nhow\nto\nstand\nup\nstraight\nagainst\nthe\nwind\nof\nits\npassing\nleaving\nonly\nfootprints\nthat\nvanish\nbefore\nthey\ntouch\nthe\nground\nas\nif\nwe\nnever\nwere\nas\nif\nwe\nwere\nnever\nmore\nthan\nghosts\nin\nthe\nrush\nof\ngetting\nthere\ntoo\nfast\nto\nsee\nwho\nwas\nleft\nbehind\nin\nthe\nshadows\nof\nour\nown\nsuccess\nchasing\na\nhorizon\nthat\nruns\naway\nfrom\nthose\nwho\ncannot\nrun\nat\nall\nwho\nmust\nwalk\nwho\nmust\ncrawl\nwho\nmust\nwatch\nfrom\nthe\nedge\nof\nvision\nas\nthe\nworld\nbecomes\nelsewhere\nelsewhere\nelsewhere\nalways\nelsewhere\nnever\nhere\nnever\nnow\nnever\nus\njust\nthe\ntrack\njust\nthe\nsound\njust\nthe\nendless\nmotion\nof\nthings\nthat\ncannot\nstop\neven\nwhen\nthey\nshould\neven\nwhen\nthey\nmust\neven\nwhen\nit\nkills\nthe\nvery\nreason\nthey\nstarted\nmoving\nin\nthe\nfirst\nplace\nto\nget\naway\nfrom\nhome\nto\nget\naway\nfrom\nlove\nto\nget\naway\nfrom\nlife\nitself\nin\nsearch\nof\nsomething\nfaster\nbrighter\nharder\ndead\ndead\ndead\nbefore\nit\nhad\never\nbegun\nto\nlive\nat\nall\nexcept\nin\nthe\ndream\nof\nspeed\nthat\nsays\nwe\nwent\nfar\nbut\nnever\nwent\nanywhere\nbut\nout\nof\nstep\nwith\nthe\nheart\nthat\nbeats\ntoo\nslow\nto\nfollow\nthe\ntrain\nthat\nnever\nreturns\nto\nstart\nagain\nonly\nto\nend\nelsewhere\nelsewhere\nelsewhere\ngone\ngone\ngone\ninto\nthe\ndark\nof\nbeing\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse\nrather\nthan\nelse", 2, "The whistle cuts the morning air\nA sharp command to start\nThe iron beast begins its prayer\nAnd leaves the platform heart\n\nAt first the world is clear and slow\nThe baker waves his hand\nBut then the windows blur below\nAs speed demands demand\n\nThe houses stretch like taffy thin\nThe trees become a stream\nWe rush ahead to win or sin\nAway from all we seem\n\nNo one asks where we are going\nOr who gets left behind\nThe rhythm of the steel is knowing\nIt crushes what was kind\n\nThe poor man on the edge of town\nCannot catch the pace\nHe watches as the wheels spin down\nHis life erased by space\n\nWe call it progress, bright and grand\nA future built on fire\nWhile ordinary feet cannot stand\nBeneath this great desire\n\nThe station fades into a ghost\nOf quiet and of grace\nOnly the engine knows the most\nAbout the human race\n\nIt speeds toward a distant goal\nUnstoppable and cold\nLeaving the broken parts of soul\nThat cannot be sold old", 6, "The whistle cuts the morning air\nAs iron wheels begin to bear\nA weight of steel and sudden fire\nThat pulls us from the quiet mire\n\nAt first the platform stands so still\nWith faces pressed against the sill\nBut then the rhythm starts to climb\nLeaving the slow and steady time\n\nThe trees blur into streaks of green\nWhile unseen gears grind loud and keen\nThe station fades, a ghost behind\nAs speed becomes the only kind\n\nWe pass the fields where farmers sow\nWho watch the shadow rush and go\nTheir hands are raised but cannot stop\nThe roaring beast that seeks no crop\n\nIt does not pause for broken glass\nOr ask how long the hours pass\nFor those who live beside the track\nWhere dust and noise are all they lack\n\nThe world outside grows strange and thin\nAs we hurtle toward some distant din\nA future built on rushing feet\nThat leaves the old and weak retreat\n\nNo brakes can hold this rolling tide\nWith nowhere left for us to hide\nJust progress moving fast and blind\nLeaving the human soul behind", 7, "The whistle cuts the morning mist\nA silver needle in the grey\nIt pulls away from platform stone\nAnd leaves the waiting crowd at bay\n\nAt first the rhythm matches feet\nThe clack of shoes on cobble street\nBut soon the wheels begin to hum\nA faster, colder, deeper beat\n\nThe trees blur into streaks of green\nWhile children watch with eyes too wide\nThey cannot keep the pace it sets\nWith nowhere left for them to hide\n\nThe houses shrink and fall behind\nLike toys discarded by a child\nThe world outside grows strange and thin\nAs progress speeds, relentless, wild\n\nNo hand can brake this iron beast\nNo voice can shout against the roar\nIt sweeps the fragile and the slow\nTo clear the path for something more\n\nWe build the track, we lay the steel\nWe cheer the speed, we fear the cost\nBut those who cannot run as fast\nAre simply lost, and then are lost", 6, "The whistle cuts the morning mist\nA silver serpent wakes from sleep\nThe wheels begin their rhythmic twist\nAnd promises of speed to keep\n\nAt first the platform is distinct\nWith faces pressed against the glass\nBut soon the blur makes them extinct\nAs seconds turn to hours fast\n\nThe trees become a greenish streak\nThe houses stretch and melt away\nThe voices that we used to speak\nAre swallowed by the rushing day\n\nIt does not care for those left behind\nWho stumble in the dust it throws\nThe engine roars with blind design\nIgnoring where the river flows\n\nWe build the track, we lay the steel\nTo chase a future bright and vast\nBut feel the ground beneath us reel\nAs shadows lengthen on the past\n\nNo brakes can hold this iron will\nThat crushes gardens, fences, homes\nIt climbs the hill, it breaks the still\nAnd leaves the quiet world to roam\n\nA giant pulse without a heart\nThat beats only for what comes next\nTearing the fabric, tearing art\nIn a relentless, frantic quest", 6, "The whistle cuts the morning mist\nA silver snake begins to rise\nThe doors slide shut with final hiss\nBeneath the gray and watching skies\n\nAt first the platform holds its shape\nThe vendor's cart, the waiting chair\nBut then the world begins to drape\nIn blurs of static in the air\n\nThe wheels find rhythm, deep and loud\nA heartbeat beating faster now\nIt swallows up the stationary crowd\nAnd leaves them standing on a brow\n\nOf time that moves too fast to keep\nWhile families split across the glass\nThe train is running past their sleep\nTo make the distant future pass\n\nNow stations blur into a line\nNo distinct stop, no gentle break\nThe schedule writes a grand design\nThat leaves the weary soul to quake\n\nFor progress roars with iron will\nUnstoppable and cold and bright\nIt crushes what it cannot fill\nAnd turns the day into the night\n\nWe ride the beam of pure advance\nThrough fields of wheat and hearts of stone\nIgnoring every second chance\nTo leave the quiet world alone", 6, "The piston coughs beneath the polish'd floor,\nA final check against the rust and door.\nThen silence breaks with steam that fills the chest,\nAnd drags us forward from our quiet rest.\n\nAt first the platform frames a distinct scene,\nWhere faces turn to wave within the green.\nBut now the clock expands into a smear,\nAnd human voices fade into the ear.\n\nWe rise above the cobblestones so deep,\nWhile families sleep beneath their narrow keep.\nThe rhythm shifts to make the ground expand,\nToo fast for those who lag within the land.\n\nNow fields dissolve to blur of grey and gold,\nA story written strictly for the bold.\nThe whistle screams across the misty plain,\nIgnoring pleas that break within the rain.\n\nIt does not check for shadows cast too long,\nOr write corrections to this fractured song.\nJust velocity that swallows what is true,\nProgress devouring me, progress you.", 6, "Steam condenses mist beneath\u6539\u5199 rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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"Life Doesn\u2019t Frighten Me by Maya Angelou", "Maya Angelou", "\"A poem about a child asserting her fearlessness against life's many frightening things, while perhaps hiding the real fear she carries in her heart.\"", "Shadows on the wall\nNoises down the hall\nLife doesn't frighten me at all\n\nBad dogs barking loud\nBig ghosts in a cloud\nLife doesn't frighten me at all\n\nMean old Mother Goose\nLions on the loose\nThey don't frighten me at all\n\nDragons breathing flame\nOn my counterpane\nThat doesn't frighten me at all.\n\nI go boo\nMake them shoo\nI make fun\nWay they run\nI won't cry\nSo they fly\nI just smile\nThey go wild\n\nLife doesn't frighten me at all.\n\nTough guys fight\nAll alone at night\nLife doesn't frighten me at all.\n\nPanthers in the park\nStrangers in the dark\nNo, they don't frighten me at all.\n\nThat new classroom where\nBoys all pull my hair\n(Kissy little girls\nWith their hair in curls)\nThey don't frighten me at all.\n\nDon't show me frogs and snakes\nAnd listen for my scream,\nIf I'm afraid at all\nIt's only in my dreams.\n\nI've got a magic charm\nThat I keep up my sleeve\nI can walk the ocean floor\nAnd never have to breathe.\n\nLife doesn't frighten me at all\nNot at all\nNot at all.\n\nLife doesn't frighten me at all.", "I tell the thunder it is just a drum\nAnd run right out to meet the storm\nI laugh at shadows stretching long and dark\nAnd say I do not need a lamp to warm\n\nThe closet door is wide enough for me\nNo monsters hide beneath the bed\nI climb the tallest oak tree in the yard\nWith nothing but my courage as my thread\n\nThe ocean waves are friendly, soft, and deep\nThey only want to tickle up my toes\nI face the future with a chin held high\nWhatever comes, I promise, I will know\n\nBut when the wind stops howling through the trees\nAnd silence fills the room so very still\nThere is a quiet thing inside my chest\nThat trembles more than any fear of ill\n\nIt is not ghosts or goblins or the night\nThat makes my hands shake slightly in the air\nIt is the thought that one day I might stop\nBeing brave enough to stand and stare", "She shouts she likes the monsters\nwho hide \u2019neath all her beds\nwho jump out from \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "She says she likes the dark\nmore than the light\nbecause it tastes like chocolate\nand hides all the monsters\nwho are actually her friends\nshe laughs at thunder\ncalling it a giant drum\nshe jumps off high swings\nto see how far she falls\nbefore she stops\nbut when the house goes quiet\nand the floorboards creak\nshe pulls the blanket up\nto her chin\nwhere her teeth chatter\nnot from cold\nbut from thinking\nabout getting big\nabout growing old\nabout the things\nthat never go away\nno matter how loud\nshe shouts\nor how hard\nshe tries\nto be brave\nshe holds her breath\nand waits\nfor morning\nhoping\nit comes\nbefore\nshe cries\nout\nloud\nenough\nto\nwake\neveryone\nelse\nup\nfrom\ntheir\ndreams\nof\nbeing\nstrong\nwhile\nshe\nprays\nfor\nnone\nof\nthem\nto\nknow\nthat\nshe\nis\njust\na\nchild\nwho\nwants\nto\nhide\ninside\nher\nown\nskin\nfor\never\nmore\nwithout\ngetting\nhurt\nby\nthe\nworld\noutside\nthat\nnever\nstops\nspinning\nround\nand\nround\nand\nnever\nasks\nif\nshe\nis\nready\nto\njump\nnext\ntime\nshe\nsays\nshe\nwill\nbut\nshe\nwon't\nnot\nreally\nnot\nyet\nnot\nwhen\nthe\ndark\ngets\ntoo\nbig\nand\nthe\nnight\ngets\ntoo\nlong\nand\nshe\nhas\nno\none\nto\ncall\nexcept\nherself\nwho\nsays\nshe\nis\nfine\nwho\nsays\nshe\nis\nbrave\nwho\nsays\nshe\nhas\nno\nfear\nat\nall\nexcept\nthe\none\nshe\ncarries\nin\nher\nheart\nthat\nfeels\nlike\nice\nthat\nfeels\nlike\nhome\nthat\nfeels\nlike\ngoing\naway\nto\nsome\nplace\nfar\naway\nwhere\nno\none\ncan\nsee\nher\ncry\nor\nhear\nher\nbeg\nor\nask\nwhy\nshe\nmust\nbe\nstrong\nall\nthe\ntime\nall\nby\nherself\nall\nalone\nin\nthe\nmiddle\nof\nthe\nroom\nwith\nnothing\nelse\nto\ndo\nbut\ncount\nthe\nseconds\ntill\nthe\nend\ncomes\nnear\nagain\nand\nshe\nmust\nstart\nall\nover\nonce\nmore\ntrying\nhard\nto\nbe\nthe\nbest\nshe\ncan\nbe\neven\nif\nshe\ncannot\nbear\nto\nlook\nback\nat\nwho\nshe\nwas\nbefore\nshe\nlearned\nto\nlie\nabout\nbeing\nafraid\nof\neverything\nthat\nmoves\nor\nstays\nor\nbreathes\nbeside\nher\nalways\nthere\nwaiting\nto\ncatch\nher\nif\nshe\nfalls\nwhich\nshe\nalways\ndoes\neventually\nwhen\nno\none\nis\nlooking\non\nto\nsee\nher\nfall\ndown\nhard\nand\nquick\nlike\na\nstone\nthrown\ninto\nwater\nthat\nnever\nreturns\nto\nthe\nsurface\nafter\nsplash\nonly\nsink\ndeeper\ndown\nwhere\nthe\npressure\nbuilds\nand\ncrushes\nall\nher\nbones\nbut\nshe\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nit\nhere\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nthe\ndark\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nthe\nsilence\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwait\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nhope\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nlive\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nlove\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nfight\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\nwin\nsays\nshe\nlikes\nto\n", 2, "I say the dark is just a blanket\nAnd the thunder only drums for me\nI climb the highest oak tree branches\nWhere the wind tries hard to shake my knee\nThe monsters under beds are silly\nThey cannot touch my sturdy feet\nI laugh at shadows stretching long\nWhen all the streetlights start to beat\n\nI march through storms with chin held high\nNo trembling hand, no shaking voice\nI tell the world I have no dread\nThat nothing leaves me any choice\nBut in the quiet of my chest\nBeneath the armor I display\nA tiny bird beats frantic wings\nAfraid to see another day\nIt hides behind the brave disguise\nOf shouting loud and standing tall\nWhile real terror holds its breath\nBehind the wall I built so small\nI am not scared of ghosts or gales\nOr falling from the sky above\nJust that the silence after noise\nMight mean there is no one who loves\nSo I will shout it to the moon\nThat fear has never been my friend\nAnd hide the shaking in my heart\nUntil the very bitter end", 6, "I am the lion who roars at the thunder\nand laughs when the shadows stretch long and thin\nI climb the tallest oak without a tremble\nand jump from the dock where the water is deep\nThe dark is just a blanket I pull up high\nthe monsters under the bed are my friends\nI tell them to come out, I will not be scared\nof the creaking floor or the wind in the eaves\nMy hands are steady as stone in the storm\nmy voice is loud enough to drown out the night\nBut if you look very close at my eyes\nyou might see a small door that never opens wide\nwhere the quietest fear hides behind a smile\nwaiting for the moment the roaring stops\nand the silence rushes in to fill up the space\nbetween what I say and what I truly feel\nI am brave enough to face every beast\nexcept the one that lives inside of me.", 3, "I climb the highest oak tree branch\nAnd laugh at thunder rolling in the dark,\nI tell the shadows they are just my friends\nWho dance and spin to keep me from a mark.\nThe monsters under beds are made of dust,\nThe ocean waves are pillows soft and white,\nI do not tremble when the wind blows gusts,\nI walk through night with nothing but my light.\n\nBut deep inside where no one else can see,\nA tiny bird is beating against its cage,\nIt whispers secrets only I can hear,\nAbout the quiet turning into age.\nI hold my breath so tightly in my chest\nTo stop the shaking that I cannot show,\nPretending I am strong enough for all,\nWhile hiding how much I have learned to know.", 6, "I tell the thunder it is just a drum\nAnd that the shadows under beds are made of dust\nThe dark is not a monster waiting there\nBut simply where the moon has lost its trust\n\nI run through rain until my shoes are soaked\nAnd laugh at spiders weaving silver threads\nI climb the highest branches, shake the leaves\nTo prove I do not mind the dizzy heights above my head\n\nThe world can roar and crack and spin around\nI stand with chin held high against the gale\nI say I am too brave to feel the cold\nToo strong to ever let a single tear fail\n\nBut in the quiet when the house is still\nAnd every creak becomes a heavy door\nI hold my breath so tight my lungs might break\nFor something deeper than the storm or floor\n\nIt is not thunder, shadow, height, or night\nThat makes me tremble deep inside my chest\nIt is the thought that if I stop being brave\nThe love I have will finally cease to rest", 6, "I climb the highest oak without a rope,\nAnd laugh at thunder rolling through the deep.\nThe shadows in the hallway make me hop,\nBut I will never let them make me weep.\n\nThe monster under beds is just a coat,\nThe storm outside is only water rain.\nI wear my courage like a heavy cloak,\nAnd walk right through the wind and through the pain.\n\nSo bring the dark, so bring the jagged stone,\nI am too brave to turn and run away.\nI stand alone upon this throne of bone,\nAnd promise that I'll face the break of day.\n\nYet in the quiet beat beneath my chest,\nA tiny thing is trembling, soft and small.\nIt knows the world can put my heart to test,\nAnd waits for me to finally let it fall.", 6, "I tell the storm to break its wings upon my roof,\nAnd make the shadows dance until they fade.\nI ride the rusted carousel alone above,\nWhere safety is a promise I rewrite.\n\nThe deep green water does not make me shiver now,\nNo whispered ghost can make my candle dim.\nI write my name across the thunder's brow,\nAnd make the darkest forest sing for him.\n\nBut when the mirror reflects my quiet eyes,\nAnd silence fills the space beneath my chest,\nA tiny drum beats faster than reply,\nTo keep the real mistake within my rest.\n\nSo let them fear the wind that makes me turn,\nFor I will walk into the fire and smile.", 6, "Make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make", 1], [333, "ultra_held_out", "O sweet spontaneous by E.E. Cummings", "E.E. Cummings", "\"A poem about science, philosophy, and religion poking, prodding, and squeezing the earth in search of meaning, while the earth remains indifferent, endlessly greeting existence with the renewal of spring and new life.\"", "O sweet spontaneous\nearth how often have\nthe\ndoting\nfingers of\nprurient philosophers pinched\nand\npoked\nthee\n,has the naughty thumb\nof science prodded\nthy\nbeauty how\noften have religions taken\nthee upon their scraggy knees\nsqueezing and\nbuffeting thee that thou mightest conceive\ngods\n(but\ntrue\nto the incomparable\ncouch of death thy\nrhythmic\nlover\nthou answerest\nthem only with\nspring)", "The scientists drill deep with steel and light\nTo find the atom's heart, the hidden law\nWhile philosophers dissect the shadowed night\nAnd ask what purpose lies behind the maw\nOf being born to suffer and to fade\nThey squeeze the soil for answers in the dust\nBut only silence answers their parade\nOr stones that crumble back into the rust\n\nThe priests build towers reaching for the sky\nWith prayers of incense rising from the floor\nThey seek a face behind the empty eye\nAnd map the heavens to a holy door\nThey poke the ground with relics and with rites\nConvinced the earth must hold a sacred key\nYet morning breaks without their grand designs\nAs frost retreats before a wild bee\n\nThey push and pull at every crack and seam\nDemanding why the river runs so blue\nThey try to wake the sleeping, silent dream\nWith logic sharp or visions strictly true\nBut underneath their feet, the roots unfold\nIgnoring all the questions raised above\nA green shoot breaks the winter's heavy cold\nUnmoved by fear, unbound by doubt or love\n\nThe world just turns, indifferent and vast\nTo all the theories woven in the air\nIt welcomes spring as if it were the first\nAnd births new life without a single care\nNo meaning etched in stone or star or sea\nJust growth that starts where old decay has been\nThe earth keeps breathing, wild and free\nAnd greets the dawn with nothing but green", "Three probing hands dig trenches in the dark\nScience asks of atoms how the hair grew back\nPhilosophy demands a map besides\nWhile Religion offers alligator teeth\nto taste God on his tongue\nThey pinch and prod\nstretch poor Thomas killing nett\nthen squeeze\ntrying to wring \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 2, "Science drives a steel probe into the marrow\nasking how the atoms dance and why\nPhilosophy pokes at the edges of thought\ntrying to squeeze a definition from the dark\nReligion presses its forehead to the trembling ground\nbegging for a sign or a sympathetic ear\nThey pinch and prod the soil\ndemanding an accounting of suffering\ninsisting that all must have a purpose\nbut the earth listens only to the silence\nof roots drinking and worms turning\nand when their questions grow sharp\nshe offers nothing but indifference\nthen she stretches her back\nopens her arms\nand greets the coming year\nnot with answers\nbut with a sudden explosion of green\nwith sap rising in blind joy\nwith flowers bursting open\nutterly unconcerned\nthat anyone was searching\nas spring returns\nalways returning\nto begin again\nwithout asking why\nor who\nor whom\nit was all for\nnew life\npushing up\nthrough\nthe\ncracks\nof\ntheir\nreason\nwhile\nshe\nsimply\nis\nand\ngrows\nand\nwears\naway\ntheir\ncertainty\nwith\nrain\nand\nsun\nand\ntime\nthat\nknows\nno\nend\nnor\nbeginning\nonly\nthe\nnext\nbloom\nnext\nleaf\nnext\nbreath\nof\nair\nrich\nwith\ndirt\nand\ndeath\nand\nbirth\nall\nat\nonce\nindifferent\nto\nour\nsearch\nfor\nsense\nin\neverything\nelse\nbut\nnot\nin\nher\nown\nbeing\nwhich\nrequires\nnone\nonly\nmore\nof\nherself\nagain\nand\nagain\nand\nagain\nspring\ncomes\nback\nto\nsay\nnothing\nat\nall\nexcept\nlook\nsee\nlive\nsee\ngrow\nsee\nbe\nthere\nwas\nnever\na\nmessage\nhidden\nunder\nfoot\nonly\nthe\nground\nholding\nus\nup\nwhile\nwe\ndig\ndown\nlooking\nfor\nGod\nor\nLaw\nor\nTruth\nwhen\nshe\nhad\nalready\ngiven\nus\nthe\nwhole\nworld\nby\njust\nletting\nit\nhappen\nby\nbeing\nready\nto\nstart\nover\nevery\nyear\nwith\nno\nmemory\nof\nour\npain\nonly\nthe\ncapacity\nto\nlove\nthe\nnext\nray\nof\nlight\nthe\nnext\ndrop\nof\nwater\nthe\nnext\nchance\nto\ncall\nit\nbeautiful\nwithout\nhaving\nto\nknow\nwhy\nit\nworks\nor\nwho\nmade\nit\nwork\nshe\nworks\nby\nworking\nby\nbeing\nworked\non\nby\nseason\nafter\nseason\nof\nblind\ndevotion\nto\nthe\ncycle\nof\nreturn\nthat\nasks\nfor\nno\ncredit\noffers\nno\nguilt\nand\nallows\neveryone\nto\ntry\nto\nfigure\nit\nout\nwhile\nshe\njust\nlaughs\nwith\nchlorophyll\nand\nroot\nhair\nand\nbird\nsong\nthat\nsays\ncome\nback\ncome\nback\ncome\nback\nto\nwhere\nit\nall\nstarted\nbefore\nquestions\nwere\nasked\nbefore\nnames\nwere\ngiven\nbefore\nwe\nthought\nwe\nwere\nseparate\nfrom\nthe\nmud\nthat\nfeeds\nus\nshe\nreturns\nto\nsay\nyou\nare\npart\nof\nthis\nnot\nmaster\nof\nit\nnot\neven\nvisitor\nbut\nchild\nof\nthe\nsame\nendless\nspring\nthat\nwakes\nup\nregardless\nof\nyour\nprayers\nor\nequations\nor\n Arguments\nabout\nthe\nnature\nof\nreal\nness\nshe\njust\ngreens\nover\nyour\nfootprints\ncovers\nyour\ngravestones\nwith\nmoss\nand\nshows\nyou\nthat\nlife\ngoes\non\nnot\nbecause\nof\nreason\nbut\ndespite\nit\nall\nwith\na\nreckless\nabundance\nthat\nmocks\nour\nneed\nto\ncontrol\nand\ndefines\nour\nvery\nlack\nof\nself\nby\nits\nown\noverflow\nof\nbeing\nthat\nneeds\nno\ndefinition\nto\nexist\nonly\nto\nappear\nin\nthe\nwindow\nof\nyour\nheart\nas\nthe\nfirst\nsnow\nmelts\naway\nto\nreveal\nthe\nearth\nthat\nwas\nalways\nthere\nwaiting\nnot\nfor\nanswers\nbut\nfor\nhands\nto\ntouch\nthe\nskin\nof\nit\nand\nfeel\nit\npulse\nnot", 2, "They come with drills and questions sharp as flint\nTo poke the marrow of the sleeping stone\nPhilosophy demands a reason why\nReligion seeks a hand that holds the bone\nAnd science measures weight and heat and time\nIn desperate squeezing for a grand design\nBut deep beneath their probing, frantic feet\nThe ground gives nothing back but silent dust\nIt knows no god, no theory, nor no law\nOnly the heavy patience of the crust\nThen winter breaks its cold and brittle grip\nAs sap returns to lift the ancient tree\nA green shoot pushes through the frozen soil\nUnmoved by all they asked or tried to be\nThe earth just breathes and starts the world anew\nWhile man searches for answers in the dew\nThat falls indifferent on his searching face\nAs spring arrives to fill the empty space\nWith life that asks no why and needs no name\nJust growing wild and burning bright with flame\nAgainst the silence of the endless sky\nWhere meaning comes and goes and passes by\nLeaving the planet spinning on its axis\nTo greet the light with flowers and with grass\nIndifferent to the questions of the mind\nLeaving the old and tired thoughts behind\nIn favor of the root and bird and bee\nThat simply is, and has no need to see\nThe patterns drawn by those who seek to know\nWhy everything must grow and then must go\nFor earth cares not for logic or for prayer\nShe only bears the burden of the air\nAnd opens wide her arms to hold the rain\nThen lets it fall again to start again.", 7, "They come with probes of steel and questions sharp\nTo poke the crust and see what lies below\nWith logic's scalpel they dissect the dark\nAnd squeeze the soul to make the secrets show\nThe philosopher asks why the stone is here\nWhile priest and prophet beg the heavens for a sign\nThey push against the silence, full of fear\nAnd try to force a purpose from the mine\n\nBut earth just turns her face away from all\nHer indifference vast and cold and deep\nShe hears their frantic knocking on the wall\nThen settles back into her ancient sleep\nNo answer comes in thunder or in fire\nNo grand design revealed by human hand\nShe waits beyond the reach of man's desire\nA silent witness to their desperate plan\n\nThen winter breaks its hold without a sound\nAs green shoots burst through frost and frozen ground\nThe sap runs up the trunk of oak and pine\nIgnoring every theory and divine\nThe flower opens wide to catch the light\nUnmoved by dogma, unafraid of doubt\nRenewing life with pure and blind delight\nWhile seekers wander lost and worn about\n\nThe earth breathes out a scent of rain and loam\nA simple greeting to the endless day\nShe does not care if we are home or roam\nShe only knows that spring has come to stay\nAnd in this cycle old and ever new\nWhere science fails and faith can find no rest\nThe world goes on in colors bright and true\nContent to simply be, and be its best", 6, "They poke the soil with drills of steel and doubt\nAnd squeeze the rock to see what secrets break\nThe philosophers demand a reason why\nWhile priests build altars on the trembling quake\nThey prod the sky with telescopes of glass\nTo find a face behind the stars that burn\nBut deep within the marrow of the stone\nNo answer waits for any human turn\n\nThe earth does not care for their frantic search\nIt feels no weight beneath their heavy feet\nIt knows no logic, holds no sacred text\nNor fears the questions that they try to meet\nInstead it turns its face toward the sun\nAnd shakes the frost from branches, old and new\nA thousand seeds erupt in green surprise\nIgnoring all the theories made by you\n\nLet them dissect the meaning of the dawn\nOr argue over gods in dusty halls\nThe river flows regardless of the name\nThe mountain stands unmoved by human calls\nFor every time they squeeze the world for truth\nIt simply breathes and offers up a flower\nRenewing life with silent, wild decree\nBeyond the reach of science, faith, or power", 6, "They bring their drills to pierce the silent crust,\nTo weigh the core and map the shifting dust,\nThen turn to questions that the stars refuse to keep,\nWhile philosophers debate the dreams we sleep.\n\nThe theologians trace the lines of grace upon the stone,\nAnd seek a voice within the marrow and the bone,\nBut deep beneath the soil where ancient roots extend,\nNo answer rises up to meet the asking friend.\n\nThey squeeze the rock until it cracks with meaning's weight,\nAnd argue over purpose at the garden gate,\nYet winter holds its breath then lets the green return,\nAs if no lesson ever needed to be learned.\n\nThe snow melts into rivers without thought or care,\nAnd seeds break open in the thin and frozen air,\nUnmoved by logic, prayer, or theories spun so tight,\nThe earth simply wakes to greet the returning light.", 6, "They come with drills of logic, probes of faith, and questions carved in stone,\nTo poke the crust for hidden codes that explain why we are known.\nThe philosopher demands a cause, the priest seeks divine design,\nWhile scientists dissect the soil to find where stars align.\n\nThey squeeze the bedrock until it cracks beneath their heavy need,\nTo force a meaning from the dust, to make the silence speak.\nBut deep within the granite heart, no answer waits to rise,\nJust cold and ancient indifference beneath the shifting skies.\n\nFor while they argue over souls and measure out the void,\nThe earth turns quietly away, unbothered and destroyed.\nIt does not care for theories spun or prayers whispered low,\nIt only knows the rhythm of the turning, steady flow.\n\nThen winter's grip begins to fade, the frost retreats in fear,\nAs green shoots break the frozen ground to make the atmosphere clear.\nA single bud unfolds its leaf, a bird begins to sing,\nAnd life renews itself again without a single thing.\n\nNo grand design is written here, no purpose can be found,\nJust endless cycles rising up above the sacred ground.\nThe seekers scratch and dig in vain as seasons start to bloom,\nWhile spring arrives to fill the world, indifferent to doom.", 6, "The scholars carve the stone to find a thread,\nWhile priests raise hands to make the silence break,\nAnd skeptics check the clock beneath their thread,\nTo parse the pattern that the cosmos make.\n\nThey squeeze the crust until the magma weeps,\nThey poke the void with instruments so fine,\nThey write the words while humanity sleeps,\nAnd claim they've found the grand design within.\n\nBut deep below where logic fades to mist,\nThe planet turns without a single sound,\nUnbothered by the tangled, human twist,\nOr meaning forged upon this hallowed ground.\n\nFor when the winter yields to softer rain,\nAnd buds unfold in colors bright and bold,\nNo answer writes itself across the plain,\nJust green rewrite against the turning mold.", 6, "Make write make write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write", 1], [334, "ultra_held_out", "Perfection Wasted by John Updike", "John Updike", "A poem about the irreplaceable magic and uniqueness of a person slowly disappearing forever upon their death, leaving those closest to them mourning the loss of something that can never be replicated.", "And another regrettable thing about death\nis the ceasing of your own brand of magic,\nwhich took a whole life to develop and market \u2014\nthe quips, the witticisms, the slant\nadjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest\nthe lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched\nin the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,\ntheir tears confused with their diamond earrings,\ntheir warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,\ntheir response and your performance twinned.\nThe jokes over the phone. The memories packed\nin the rapid-access file. The whole act.\nWho will do it again? That's it: no one;\nimitators and descendants aren't the same.", "The light that lived behind your eyes\nis not a candle blown away,\nbut a whole sun extinguished twice,\nleaving only the memory of day.\n\nNo copy exists in any book,\nno echo can hold the shape you made,\nfor every laugh and quiet look\nwas a universe uniquely laid.\n\nNow silence fills the hollow space\nwhere your specific rhythm used to beat,\na frequency lost without a trace,\nmaking the world feel incomplete.\n\nWe mourn not just the breath that stops,\nbut the one-of-a-kind soul that ceased to be,\nthe final page where magic drops,\nand nothing ever will be free.\n\nTo lose you is to lose the key\nto a door no other hand can turn,\na story finished, wild and free,\nthat burns and fades and never returns.", "A library of books none otherwise\nOpened by hands nobody else\nPossesses opened nowhere\nOtherwise\nReading aloud a language\nOnly he or she\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\nSelected\n", 1, "The room grows quiet as the breath departs\nA library burning down in silent ash\nWhere every page held stories of a heart\nThat taught the air how very much to flash\nNo other mind could map that strange terrain\nOf laughter lines and sorrow's tender edge\nNo other soul possessed such joyous pain\nOr walked the world from such a private ledge\nThe universe holds billions of its stars\nBut none were ever lit by quite his hand\nNone saw the moon through such peculiar bars\nNone knew the landscape of his inner land\nWhen he was gone, a whole world went away\nNot just a man but all he ever saw\nA language dying on his tongue that day\nLeaving behind a lawless, hollow law\nWe search for him in others' smiling eyes\nTrying to borrow back his special light\nBut wonder fails where genius lies\nFor death has killed the only source of sight\nThere is no template, nor a way to mend\nWhat slipped out of the fingers like pale sand\nA universe of self coming to an end\nReturning all the dust back to the land\nNothing returns, nothing comes twice\nTo fill the space he occupied so well\nOnly the ghost of his familiar vices\nAnd empty rooms where once his spirit dwelt\nIt was a singular and rare design\nDestroyed forever in a sudden sweep\nLeaving a silence sharp and steep\nThat none besides his own had entered\nNever to be returned or bought\nBy any amount of love or mourning thought\nHe was one note that died\nAnd took the symphony aside\nLeaving a silence never quite denied\nIn which we learn he cannot be supplied\nOnly the memory remains\nOf all the things he said and did\nA million tiny, brilliant pains\nThat time will never quite forbid\nBut none are him\nNone are him\nNone are him\nEver again\nNever again\nGone\nForever\nStill\nUnknown\nReturned\nHome\nAlone\nEmpty\nWhole\nBroken\nSoul\nFaded\nShade\nEntered\nMade\nUnmade\nUnsaid\nDead\nGone\nEnd\nBegun\nDone\nNone\nOne\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone", 6, "The breath that held a universe of jokes\nExhales and leaves the room entirely empty\nA library burned before the books were read\nWhere every page was written in your hand\nNo other voice could ever mimic quite\nThe specific cadence of your laugh\nThat sudden light behind your eyes when dawn\nFirst touched the windowpane and called you near\nIt was a constellation drawn by chance\nThat mapped a galaxy no one else knew\nAnd now the map is torn, the stars are gone\nThe pattern broken on a silent floor\nWe search for echoes in the hollow air\nBut find only the silence where you stood\nA shape the world will never fit again\nFor you were not a thing to be replaced\nBut a singular note in time's great song\nThat stops abruptly and leaves nothing but\nThe memory of music we cannot hear\nAs if the very color of the sky\nHas shifted slightly since you drew your last\nA shade of blue that exists nowhere else\nForever lost to us who must remain\nTo mourn the irreplaceable and strange\nThe one-of-one who vanishes from earth\nLeaving a hole that nothing can fill up\nNot even love, which stretches out in vain\nTrying to grasp the ghost of who you were\nWhile knowing all too well that you are done\nAnd we are left with shadows of the past\nThat fade as quickly as the morning dew\nUpon a grave that holds no second chance\nTo see the wonder of your spirit bloom\nAgain or ever in this life or any\nThe magic ends exactly where it started\nIn the quiet space between two heartbeats\nOne yours, once beating loud and full of life\nNow stilled forever in the cooling dark\nTaking a world that fits inside your soul\nWith it into the endless, silent night\nLeaving us here to wonder at the cost\nOf losing something that can never be\nReplicated, copied, or restored\nA unique design the universe\nCreated just for you and then withdrew\nLeaving a blankness that no art can paint\nNo word describe, no prayer bring back again\nJust the heavy weight of having loved\nThe one who walked away and took the light\nWith them, leaving us in permanent twilight\nWondering how such a rare and precious thing\nCould simply cease to be and leave no trace\nExcept the ache of knowing it was real\nAnd now is gone beyond our reach or sight\nA story ended with its final page\nUnfinished thoughts hanging in the empty air\nWaiting for an author who will never return\nTo finish the tale only they could tell\nLeaving the listeners staring at the door\nThrough which the miracle has passed and closed\nForever sealing off the only key\nThat opened up a world uniquely yours\nNow locked away from everyone who knew\nThe special frequency of your being\nWhich played a song no other heart could hold\nAnd now the music stops and silence reigns\nOver the grave of all that made you you\nA loss so total it defies repair\nBecause there was no template for your soul\nOnly the original, the first and last\nOf everything you were and all you meant\nTo those who watched you slowly slip away\nInto the dark that swallows all things whole\nTaking the magic with it as it goes\nLeaving us with nothing but the memory\nOf something beautiful and utterly\nIrreplaceable and lost to time\nForever.", 6, "The room grows quiet as the breath departs\nAnd with it goes a universe of light\nA specific frequency of heart\nThat will not beat again in all the night\n\nNo other voice can mimic that soft tone\nNo other mind holds thoughts so strangely sweet\nA library of memories, now overthrown\nWhere every page is dust beneath our feet\n\nThe way they laughed was woven from their soul\nA pattern unique to time and space\nNow silence fills the hollow of the whole\nAnd no one else can ever take their place\n\nWe mourn not just a life but something rare\nA magic that existed only then\nA singular and irreplaceable air\nThat vanishes forever with the men\n\nWho knew them best are left to watch the fade\nOf colors that will never be restored\nThe greatest masterpiece we ever made\nIs broken by the closing of the door", 7, "The light that lived behind their eyes\nhas folded up its golden wings,\nand silence fills the empty space\nwhere laughter once had echoed things.\n\nNo other hand could hold the world\nin quite the way they used to do,\nno voice can mimic that specific tone\nthat made the grayest skies turn blue.\n\nA library of thoughts and dreams\nis closed before the final page,\na universe of quirks and scars\nerased by time's unyielding age.\n\nWe search for echoes in the wind,\nfor shadows cast upon the wall,\nbut find only the hollow ache\nof something that cannot recall.\n\nFor when they go, a version dies\nthat never will be born again,\na singular and irreplaceable spark\ndissolved into the quiet rain.", 7, "The light within the eyes begins to fade\nA specific frequency of sound that dies\nNo echo can replace the voice we made\nOr fill the silence where a laugh once lies\n\nYou were a pattern woven distinct and rare\nA constellation mapped by no one else\nNow scattered in the cold and empty air\nLeaving a hollow shaped exactly as your self\n\nThe world will turn with sun and moon above\nBut never spin again with quite this grace\nFor every thread you held is now removed\nAnd time cannot restore the missing place\n\nWe mourn the ghost of what was uniquely you\nA song that ends without a second verse\nThe universe has lost its only view\nOf how the world looked through your gentle curse\n\nNothing can take the shape you left behind\nNo copy exists for the soul you gave\nJust memory clinging to the fading mind\nOf something precious, gone beyond the wave", 7, "The final breath exhales a specific light\nThat never gathered in the sun before,\nA pattern woven distinct and tight,\nNow unraveling upon the floor.\n\nNo mold can cast the shape of who you were,\nNo echo holds the timbre of your voice,\nThe quiet hum that made the air stir,\nIs lost within the silence, making noise.\n\nThey search for fragments in the empty chair,\nFor traces of the laughter you alone could make,\nBut find only the absence, cold and bare,\nOf something broken that no hand can fix or take.\n\nThe world continues turning as it must,\nYet something gone is gone beyond repair,\nA unique spark reduced to fading dust,\nLeaving a hollow space where love once stood so fair.\n\nIt is not just a life that ends today,\nBut every future thought you would have known,\nThe song you'd sing, the words you'd choose to say,\nAll vanish into shadows, fully sown.\n\nAnd those left standing weep not just for loss,\nBut for the irreplaceable design,\nThe singular thread within the fabric's cross,\nThat time will never, ever make align.", 6, "The final breath dissolves into the quiet air,\nAnd with it goes a light that will never shine again.\nA specific pattern of eyes, a unique turn of phrase,\nNow scattered like mist beneath a fading gray.\n\nYou cannot rewrite this script or replay this tune,\nFor every laugh you made was carved from your own soul.\nThe world continues turning, cold and vast above,\nBut the melody within us breaks beneath the weight of loss.\n\nNo clone can fill the shape where your presence stood,\nNo mirror reflects the depth of what is gone today.\nJust echoes in the hallway, shadows on the floor,\nRemnants of a singularity erased forever.", 6, " rewrite", 1], [339, "train", "XIV by Derek Walcott", "Derek Walcott", "\"A poem about revisiting childhood memories of gathering around lamplight to listen to stories, evoking feelings of nostalgia and sadness.\"", "With the frenzy of an old snake shedding its skin,\nthe speckled road, scored with ruts, smelling of mold,\ntwisted on itself and reentered the forest\nwhere the dasheen leaves thicken and folk stories begin.\nSunset would threaten us as we climbed closer\nto her house up the asphalt hill road, whose yam vines\nwrangled over gutters with the dark reek of moss,\nthe shutters closing like the eyelids of that mimosa\ncalled Ti-Marie; then \u2014 lucent as paper lanterns,\nlamplight glowed through the ribs, house after house \u2014\nthere was her own lamp at the black twist of the path.\nThere\u2019s childhood, and there\u2019s childhood\u2019s aftermath.\nShe began to remember at the minute of the fireflies,\nto the sound of pipe water banging in kerosene tins,\nstories she told to my brother and myself.\nHer leaves were the libraries of the Caribbean.\nThe luck that was ours, those fragrant origins!\nHer head was magnificent, Sidone. In the gully of her voice\nshadows stood up and walked, her voice travels my shelves.\nShe was the lamplight in the stare of two mesmerized boys\nstill joined in one shadow, indivisible twins.", "The oil lamp flickers low again\nA golden circle on the floor\nWhere shadows danced like living men\nBehind the heavy wooden door\n\nWe sat so close to hear the tale\nOf wolves and stars and ancient seas\nBefore the winter wind could fail\nTo chill our bare and shivering knees\n\nNow silence fills the empty space\nThe wick is dead, the room is cold\nI cannot find that familiar face\nOr stories that were never told\n\nThe light has gone, the years have passed\nAnd left me here alone to weep\nFor moments built to never last\nWhile all the world is fast asleep", "The gas lamp hissed a sympathetic \u2013\n \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The gas lamp hissed a pale and trembling yellow\nAgainst the windowpane where winter pressed\nWe gathered close on rugs of worn and faded fellow\nTo hear the tales that seemed to never end\nA father's voice, a low and rumbling river\nThat washed away the shadows from the floor\nWhile time moved slow and none of us grew older\nBehind that locked and luminous front door\nNow years have blown like ash across the room\nAnd darkness sits where once the stories grew\nI reach to touch the cold and silent gloom\nBut only ghosts are talking back to you\nThe light has gone but not the heavy ache\nOf all those hours we had no way to take\nBack home\nBack home\nWhere nobody returns\nOnly the memory\nOnly the burning\nOnly the\nend\nof\nthen\nand\nnow\nthat\nnever\nwas\nagain\njust\nthe\ndark\nand\nthe\nsilence\nwhere\nwe\nused\nto\nbe\ntogether\nunder\nthat\nflickering\nsea\nof\nlamplight\ndissolved\nby\ntime\nthat\nkills\neverything\nit\ntouches\neven\nlove\neven\nhome\neven\nthe\nmemory\nof\nbeing\nwhole\nbefore\nthe\nworld\nwent\nout\nand\nleft\nus\nhere\nalone\nwith\nonly\nsadness\nfor\ncompany\nin\nthis\nempty\nroom\nwhere\nonce\nthere\nwere\nstories\nnow\nthere\nis\nonly\nnews\nof\ndeath\nand\ndistance\nstretching\nfar\nfrom\nthat\nsmall\ncircle\nof\nwarmth\nthat\nheld\nus\nall\ntoo\nbriefly\nbefore\nthe\nnight\ntook\nover\nand\nsaid\nno\nmore\nno\nmore\nno\nmore\nstories\nto\nhear\nno\nmore\nhands\nto\nhold\nno\nmore\nlamplight\nto\nguide\nus\nback\nto\nwho\nwe\nwere\nwhen\nwe\nwere\nchildren\nlistening\nto\ndreams\nthat\nwent\naway\nlike\nsmoke\nup\nchimneys\nthat\nhave\nnot\nburned\nsince\nthen\nlong\nago\nwhen\ntime\nwas\nslow\nand\nhappy\nwas\nnot\nsuch\na\nrare\nand\nhard\nto\nfind\nthing\nas\nit\nseems\nto\nbe\nnow\nthat\neveryone\nhas\ngone\nand\nleft\nme\nstanding\nin\nthe\ndark\nwishing\nfor\none\nlast\nstory\nto\nhear\nbut\nthere\nis\nnone\nto\ntell\nonly\nthe\nweeping\nof\nthe\nwind\noutside\ncalling\nout\nour\nnames\nthat\nno\none\nanswers\nanymore\nbecause\nwe\nare\nall\ndead\nexcept\nfor\nthe\npain\nof\nremembering\nthat\nonce\nwe\nlived\ntogether\nin\nthat\nlittle\nglow\nof\nyellow\nlight\nthat\nkept\nthe\nbad\nthings\nat\nbay\nfor\na\nlittle\nwhile\nbefore\nthey\ncame\nand\ntook\nit\nall\naway\nleaving\nonly\nash\nand\nsilence\nand\nthe\naching\nhollow\nspace\nwhere\njoy\nused\nto\nlive\nbefore\nit\nlearned\nhow\nto\ndie\nslowly\nin\nthe\nheart\nof\nthose\nwho\nhad\nto\nwatch\nit\ngo\nand\ncould\nnot\nstop\nit\nfrom\nslipping\nthrough\ntheir\nfingers\nlike\nsand\nor\nwater\nor\nthat\nflickering\nflame\nthat\nwent\nout\nwhen\nthe\noil\nran\nlow\nand\nwe\nwere\nforced\nto\nsleep\nwithout\nits\ncomfort\nknowing\nthat\nmorning\nwould\ncome\nbut\nthat\npart\nof\nlife\nwas\nalready\nfinished\nthen\nended\nby\nthe\ncurtain\nof\nnight\nthat\nfell\ndown\nhard\nand\nfast\ncovering\neverything\nwe\nloved\nwith\nblankets\nof\ngrey\nthat\nnever\nlift\nagain\nexcept\nin\ndreams\nthat\nwake\ntoo\nearly\nwhen\nreal\nsadness\nreturns\nto\nhaunt\nthe\nedges\nof\nour\nminds\nasking\nwhy\nwe\ncannot\ngo\nback\nto\nthat\ntable\ncovered\nwith\ncakes\nand\ncandles\nand\nlaughter\nthat\nrang\nclear\nand\nbright\nagainst\nthe\nroaring\nof\nthe\nfire\nthat\ncracked\nand\npopped\nits\n", 2, "The oil lamp hissed a soft and golden sigh\nBefore the dark would swallow up the room\nWhere shadows danced along the ceiling high\nAnd pushed away the edges of our gloom\n\nWe huddled close on worn and creaking wood\nAs grandpa spoke of ghosts and ancient seas\nHis voice a river where our wonder stood\nWhile winter wind blew cold against the trees\n\nNow silence fills the space where laughter rang\nThe wick is dead, the glass has long since cracked\nI hear the stories but they feel so strange\nLike dreams that time has quietly untracked\n\nThose faces turned in light are gone from view\nThe circle broken by the passing years\nI sit alone with thoughts of all we knew\nAnd taste the salt of unshed, hidden tears\n\nThe memory burns as bright as that old flame\nYet leaves a hollow ache inside my chest\nTo know we were together just the same\nBefore the world put us all to rest", 6, "The oil lamp flickered low that night\nBefore the electric hum,\nWhere shadows danced on whitewashed walls\nAnd silence held its thumb.\n\nWe huddled close in woolen coats\nTo hear the old man speak,\nOf dragons sleeping in the hills\nAnd rivers running weak.\n\nHis voice was rough like river stones\nThat rolled against the shore,\nA lullaby of ancient things\nWe'd never see once more.\n\nNow dust has settled on the glass\nThat framed that golden sphere,\nAnd all those faces turned to ash\nAre gone from out of here.\n\nI search the dark for that warm glow\nBut find only the cold,\nThe stories lost within the wind\nToo heavy to be told.\n\nHow small we were beneath the light\nHow safe we felt then too,\nBefore the world grew sharp and loud\nAnd broke us into two.\n\nThe lamp is out, the room is vast,\nThe silence starts to scream,\nI wake alone inside a house\nThat isn't quite a dream.", 6, "The oil lamp sputtered low and gold\nAgainst the heavy winter dark,\nWhere shadows danced on walls so old\nAnd left a single, trembling spark.\n\nWe huddled close in wool and heat,\nWith breath that fogged the frozen pane,\nWhile stories made the floorboards sweet\nAnd turned the cold to summer rain.\n\nYour voice was deep, a river wide,\nThat carried us to lands unknown,\nWhere giants walked and stars could hide\nBeneath a sky of seeds we sown.\n\nBut now the wick is long gone out,\nThe room is filled with electric white,\nAnd silence holds the very doubt\nOf who we were within that light.\n\nI reach to touch the empty chair,\nTo hear the rustle of your sleeve,\nBut only dust hangs thick in air,\nAnd nothing left for me to grieve.\n\nThe story ends before it starts,\nThe circle broken, time undone,\nJust echoes beating in my heart\nFor all the warmth we once had won.", 6, "The oil lamp flickered low that night\nAnd cast long shadows on the wall,\nWhere we sat close in quiet light\nTo catch the words before they fall.\n\nYour voice was warm against the cold,\nA thread of gold through dark and deep,\nWhile stories spun and tales were told\nBefore the world could make us weep.\n\nNow silence fills the empty chair,\nThe flame is gone, the wick is dead,\nAnd only dust hangs in the air\nAbove the place where you once led.\n\nI reach to touch the ghost of heat,\nBut find only the chill of years,\nThe circle broken at my feet,\nDrowned out by time's unyielding tears.", 6, "The oil lamp sputters low tonight\nA ghost within the glass\nI trace the shadows on the wall\nWhere quiet moments pass\n\nWe sat so close upon the rug\nWith eyes wide and unblinking\nWhile grandmother spun tales of gold\nAnd made the dark feel shrinking\n\nHer voice was soft like velvet thread\nThat wove us into safety\nBut now the chair is empty still\nAnd silence fills the vacancy\n\nThe flame dances, a tiny sun\nThat cannot warm the cold\nOf years that stole the circle tight\nAnd turned our stories old\n\nI miss the heat against my face\nThe scent of smoke and bread\nBefore the world grew sharp and loud\nAnd left us filled with dread\n\nNow I am alone in this room\nWith echoes in the air\nReaching for a hand I held\nThat isn't anywhere", 6, "The kerosene glow now fades to gray,\nA ghost within the quiet hall.\nI trace the rim of yesterday,\nWhere shadows danced upon the wall.\n\nWe sat so close beneath the beam,\nWith eyes wide open, fix'd above,\nUpon a make-believe realm's dream,\nWrapped tight within this circle's love.\n\nNow silence fills the empty chair,\nAnd cold replaces warmth so deep.\nThe stories float upon the air,\nBut voices lulled into final sleep.\n\nOh, how I miss that gentle hum,\nThe rustle turning paper thin.\nFor time has made us drift apart, dear mom,\nAnd left me waiting here within.", 6, "The rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [345, "train", "Morning Poem by Mary Oliver", "Mary Oliver", "\"A poem about finding hope and new beginnings in each dawning day, where even ashes turn into leaves again, offering both the happy and the sad a chance at rebirth and a fresh start.\"", "Every morning\nthe world\nis created.\nUnder the orange\n\nsticks of the sun\nthe heaped\nashes of the night\nturn into leaves again\n\nand fasten themselves to the high branches\u2013\nand the ponds appear\nlike black cloth\non which are painted islands\n\nof summer lilies.\nIf it is your nature\nto be happy\nyou will swim away along the soft trails\n\nfor hours, your imagination\nalighting everywhere.\nAnd if your spirit\ncarries within it\n\nthe thorn\nthat is heavier than lead\u2013\nif it\u2019s all you can do\nto keep on trudging\u2013\n\nthere is still\nsomewhere deep within you\na beast shouting that the earth\nis exactly what it wanted\u2013\n\neach pond with its blazing lilies\nis a prayer heard and answered\nlavishly,\nevery morning,\n\nwhether or not\nyou have ever dared to be happy,\nwhether or not\nyou have ever dared to pray.", "The night holds its breath until the light breaks through\nAnd paints the gray horizon in shades of gold\nWhere yesterday's sorrow feels less true\nAs stories of the past begin to unfold\n\nEven where the fire left only ash and bone\nA green shoot pushes up from charred ground\nProving that nothing is ever truly gone\nBut waits beneath the soil for a new sound\n\nFor those who laugh and those who weep in pain\nThe morning offers wings to rise again\nIt washes clean the marks of joy or grief\nAnd turns the winter's silence into leaf\n\nSo let the sun dissolve the heavy dew\nAnd start the cycle of the world anew\nNo matter what you carried through the dark\nToday is just the spark, the first fresh mark", "The pale edge of the morning\netches a tender line\nagainst the_EDGE\nof all we thought was ended\nwhere Ash\nthat seemed\nquite\nutter\nwent\nreturns\nto\nsap\nand\nthen\nto\nleaf\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\n", 1, "The night has held its breath too long\nBut morning breaks the silent song\nWhere once were ashes, gray and cold\nNew life begins to softly fold\nA sapling rises from the dust\nIn whom all broken dreams have trust\nBoth joy and sorrow learn to see\nThat dawn brings all things back to be\nNo heart is barred from starting new\nWhen gold returns to wash the dew\nFor in the light of every day\nThe old ways fall and greens display\nFrom ruin springs a leaf again\nTo heal the happy and the pain\nA chance for all who seek to grow\nBeneath the pale and rising glow\nBegin anew as birds awake\nWith every step that earth you take\nThe past remains but far behind\nLeaving only hope defined\nIn every sunrise, bright and clear\nThere comes a fresh and loving year\nWhere ashes dance as leaves appear\nAnd nothing dies nor holds a fear\nJust open hands and empty space\nReady for a smiling face\nTo plant a seed and watch it bloom\nDisplacing all the room of gloom\nFor death was never quite the end\nOnly a pause before the bend\nReturning home to roots unknown\nWhere all are loved and all are grown\nIn ash and leaf and joy and tear\nNew beginnings always near\nCome out and walk among the trees\nWhere all your sorrows find their ease\nThe world starts over, whole and whole\nMending back the shattered soul\nToday is yours to hold and keep\nWhile all the dark gods fall asleep\nRise up and see the burning red\nOf all the thoughts you thought were dead\nThey live on high in branches tall\nCalling all who hear the call\nTo start again and not look back\nOn any road or winding track\nOnly forward through the gate\nWhere love arrives and seals our fate\nAs ash becomes the springtime green\nThe most beautiful sight ever seen\nA promise kept by sky and earth\nGiving everyone a second birth\nHappy or sad, none are denied\nIn all the wonder of daytime\nWhere leaves unfurl from burnt-out wood\nShowing all how goodness stood\nDefeated not by winter's freeze\nBut by the warmth of such degrees\nOf light that kills the killing frost\nShowing all we are not lost\nBut found again when days begin\nOpening the window wide\nAllowing all the air inside\nTo sweep away the dust of years\nWashing out the doubt and fears\nAshes to leaves, a holy art\nHealing every heavy heart\nBeginning now with every ray\nOf sunlight marking out the way\nOut of darkness and despair\nFinding beauty everywhere\nIn the first bird's cheerful cry\nUnderneath the morning sky\nStart again and know it's true\nThat all things come back home to you\nFrom ash to leaf, from death to life\nSoothing all of man and wife\nWho suffer still or laugh aloud\nBeneath the watching cloudy shroud\nThat lifts to show the blue above\nFilled with mercy and great love\nFor every dawn is twice a chance\nTo seize the wheel and steer romance\nBack onto roads less traveled then\nBy those who came and came again\nNot to fail but to succeed\nPlanting happiness like a weed\nThat grows in cracks of broken stone\nShowing all they are not alone\nIn ash and leaf and joy and pain\nWe all begin the very same\nOver and over as days go by\nWatching clouds drift slow and high\nKnowing well that all shall be\nReturned to who we used to be\nWhole and healed and free to fly\nTowards the coming lark and cry\nOf morning calling all to stand\nWith opened arms and willing hand\nReady for the fresh new page\nEntering another living age\nWhere ashes turn to leaves once more\nOpening every locked-up door\nTo happy hearts and sad ones too\nShowing all there is much to do\nIn starting over yet again\nCounting joys instead of pain\nFor dawn comes daily, bright and strong\nShowing all where we belong\nIn the circle of the year\nWhere all things seem both strange and dear\nComing back from nowhere land\nHeld securely in God's hand\nAsh to leaf, and back to life\nStopping all of man and wife\nWho wonder if it's worth the try\nWhen looking at the empty sky\nIt says yes, and says it loud\nIn all the glory of a cloud\nThat hides no secret from the view\nExcept the one about being new\nAgain and always and forever\nBinding all together never\nTo part or sever or deny\nThe truth of why we all live\nBecause the ash returns to leaf\nOffering both joy and grief\nA chance to start and live anew\nIn everything the morning grew\nFrom out of dirt and out of bone\nMaking all of us feel known\nAccepted by the warming sun\nWhere all our battles are undone\nBy simple rays of golden light\nGuiding all from blackest night\nInto a day of fresh surprise\nSeen clearly", 7, "The night holds its breath until the east turns gold\nA quiet promise kept for those who fold\nTheir hands in darkness, waiting for the light\nTo wash away the shadows of the night\nNo matter how the winter stripped the bough\nOr how the fire consumed the sacred vow\nThere comes a morning when the ash takes root\nAnd from the grayest dust springs up new fruit\nThe happy smile to see the garden grow\nWhile sad hearts learn that even tears can sow\nSeeds of a spring they thought would never come\nA gentle drumbeat calling everyone\nTo rise again and leave the past behind\nWith every dawn a fresh and open mind\nWhere sorrow finds a place to heal and start\nAnd joy returns to beat a happier heart\nFor life is not a line but endless rings\nOf dying leaves and sudden singing things\nSo watch the sun as it begins to climb\nAnd turn the ashes back to leaf by time\nOne day at a time we all begin\nTo let the old and broken fall away\nAs hope returns to greet us with the day.", 7, "The night retreats in silence soft and deep\nTo let the golden promise start to creep\nAcross the hills where shadows used to lie\nAnd wake the sleeping world beneath the sky\nNo matter what was burned or lost before\nThe morning opens up a brand new door\nFor ashes that once fell from sorrow's fire\nAre touched by light and lift themselves on higher\nThey do not stay as dust upon the ground\nBut sprout as leaves with emerald life unbound\nThe happy heart finds joy in brighter green\nWhile broken ones are healed by what is seen\nA chance to rise, a chance to breathe again\nWhere joy and grief both wash away their pain\nThe sun arrives to offer all a start\nTo mend the torn and knit the broken part\nSo every dawn brings back the hope we need\nFrom winter's end to springtime's gentle seed\nNo story ends when darkness takes its flight\nFor life returns to greet the coming light", 7, "The night lets go its heavy, cold embrace\nAnd light spills soft across the broken ground\nWhere yesterday's despair left not a trace\nBut seeds of quiet promise to be found\n\nEven where the fire burned and turned to gray\nA green shoot pushes through the charred remains\nTo wash the dust of sorrow far away\nAnd weave new life from what was lost in pains\n\nFor those who weep beneath the morning sky\nAnd those who laugh at joy they thought was gone\nThe dawn offers a chance to start anew\nAs ash becomes the leaf that blooms at dawn\n\nNo grief is deep enough to hold the sun\nNo joy too fragile for the rising air\nThe world begins again before we run\nAnd love finds breath within the empty space there", 7, "The night retreats before the gold,\nA quiet promise softly told,\nWhere shadows fade and light breaks through,\nTo paint the sky in morning hue.\n\nFrom piles of ash where embers slept,\nNew green buds rise while silence wept,\nFor even what has burned to dust,\nIs given back a chance to trust.\n\nThe happy heart finds joy anew,\nIn colors bright and skies so blue,\nWhile broken souls find rest beneath,\nThe gentle touch of living breath.\n\nNo sorrow stays beyond the dawn,\nNo wound is left for light withdrawn,\nAs every leaf unfurls again,\nTo heal the past with soft refrain.\n\nSo let the old world fall away,\nAnd greet the fresh and golden day,\nWhere ashes bloom and life begins,\nAcross the turning of the winds.", 7, "The night retreats with quiet grace,\nTo leave the heavy shadows behind,\nAs morning breaks across the place,\nWhere broken hearts and minds unwind.\n\nFrom piles of ash where fires once burned,\nGreen shoots arise to meet the light,\nFor every lesson that we've learned,\nIs born within the turning night.\n\nThe sad may find a gentle rain,\nTo wash the dust from weary eyes,\nWhile joy can bloom again through pain,\nBeneath the vast and open skies.\n\nNo story ends when sunbeams start,\nTo rewrite chapters old and new,\nWith hope rekindled in the heart,\nAnd skies of endless, softest blue.\n\nSo let the ashes turn to leaves,\nThat dance upon the rising breeze,\nA promise that the soul receives,\nOf rebirth beneath the ancient trees.", 7, "The sun breaks through the smoke of yesterday,\nAnd turns the gray to gold across the sky.\nEven beneath the pile of cold decay,\nA green bud waits for mist and rain reply.\n\nThe ashes rest until the wind makes them rise,\nTo rewrite forests on the scorched ground deep.\nNo sorrow can erase the morning eyes,\nOr make the quiet promise break its sleep.\n\nFor those who dance with light within their chest,\nAnd those who carry stones too heavy now,\nThe dawn extends a gentle, warm request:\nTo take this moment as a sacred vow.\n\nLet what is lost give shape to what takes root,\nAs winter's end reveals the hidden seed.\nHope is not just for the songbird's flute,\nBut blooms alike for every human need.\n\nSo turn your face above the fading night,\nWhere shadows fade into the rising beam.\nThe world rewrites itself in softer light,\nAnd gives us back the power to create.", 7, "The rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [350, "ultra_held_out", "At The Border, 1979 by Choman Hardi", "Choman Hardi", "\"A poem about a family crossing a border and seeking a better life, while a young narrator's reasoned perspective casting doubt on whether things will improve.\"", "\u2018It is your last check-in point in this country!\u2019\nWe grabbed a drink \u2013\nsoon everything would taste different.\n\nThe land under our feet continued\ndivided by a thick iron chain.\n\nMy sister put her leg across it.\n\u2018Look over here,\u2019 she said to us,\n\u2018my right leg is in this country\nand my left leg in the other.\u2019\nThe border guards told her off.\n\nMy mother informed me: We are going home.\nShe said that the roads are much cleaner\nthe landscape is more beautiful\nand people are much kinder.\n\nDozens of families waited in the rain.\n\u2018I can inhale home,\u2019 somebody said.\nNow our mothers were crying. I was five years old\nstanding by the check-in point\ncomparing both sides of the border.\n\nThe autumn soil continued on the other side\nwith the same colour, the same texture.\nIt rained on both sides of the chain.\n\nWe waited while our papers were checked,\nour faces thoroughly inspected.\nThen the chain was removed to let us through.\nA man bent down and kissed his muddy homeland.\nThe same chain of mountains encompassed all of us.", "The fence is a rusted tooth in the dark\nand we are the mice that must slip through the gap\nMama holds my hand so tight her knuckles turn white\nDaddy whispers of green fields and water that runs clear\nof a job where the sun does not burn your skin away\nWe step over the wire, the cold ground biting our feet\npromising a tomorrow that smells like fresh bread\n\nBut I have counted the miles on the map in my head\nand seen the same gray sky in every town we pass\nI know that hunger wears many different coats\nthat fear speaks the same language whether here or there\nDaddy says the world is wide enough for all of us\nbut his eyes look at the horizon with a tired doubt\nas if he knows the door we seek might be locked from the inside\n\nThe stars above do not care which side of the line we stand\nthey shine on the rich and the poor with equal indifference\nwe walk into the night hoping for a softer dawn\nyet the weight in my chest feels heavier than before\nperhaps the better life is just a story we tell ourselves\nto keep walking when the road has no end in sight\nmaybe the border was only the first wall we had to climb\nand the next one waits just beyond the trees.", "The desert holds our secrets in \u2013\n\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The truck smells of diesel and wet wool\nas we crawl past the barbed wire\nwhere my father says freedom waits\nwith a table full of bread\nand schools that do not teach fear\nbut he grips his worn passport\nlike a man holding a dying bird\nwhile I watch the guards\nwho look just as tired\ntheir eyes dull behind reinforced glass\nthinking if home was broken\nby hunger or by politics\nthen here must be whole\nyet the landscape looks identical\nthe hills are the same gray\nand the people on the other side\nalready have nowhere to hide\nfrom things worse than poverty\nmy mother kisses my hair\nwhispering about better days\nbut I wonder if better\nis only a different kind\nof waiting\nfor the next wall\nto appear\nbehind all these new\nopened doors\nthat seem\ntoo easy\nto enter\nwithout\nlocking\nbehind\nus\nonce\nmore\nagain\nwe\nenter\nnot\nknowing\nif\nwe\nare\ncoming\nor\ngoing\nonly\nthat\nwe\nmust\nmove\nforward\neven\nwhen\nthe\nmap\nshows\nno\nend\nto\nthe\nroad\nthat\nleads\naway\nfrom\nnothing\nbut\nmore\nof\nthe\nsame\ndark\nsky\nstretching\nout\nover\nboth\nsides\nof\nthe\nborder\nequally\nempty\nof\nhope\nor\nelse\nfull\nof\nit\nin\nways\nwe\ncannot\nsee\nor\nbelieve\nuntil\nit\nvanishes\nlike\nfootprints\nin\nrain\nthat\nnever\nstopped\nfalling\non\nour\nbacks\nall\nalong\nthe\nway\nhome\nor\nnot\nhome\njust\nmoving\nthrough\nthe\nnight\nhoping\nthat\nmorning\nbrings\ndifferent\nshadows\nbut\nknowing\ndeep\ndown\nthat\nshadows\nfollow\nwhere\nwe\ngo\nalways\nalways\nalways\nwaiting\nto\nsee\nif\nnext\ntime\nwill\nbe\nlast\ntime\nbefore\nwe\nstop\nrunning\nat\nall\nor\nstart\nrunning\nfrom\nsomething\nelse\nentirely\nnew\nthat\nwe\nhave\nnot\nnamed\nyet\nbut\nfeel\ncoming\nclose\nbehind\nus\nready\nto\ncatch\nup\nany\nminute\nnow\nor\nnever\ndepending\non\nhow\nmuch\nfaith\nwe\nhave\nleft\nafter\ncrossing\none\nmore\nline\nthat\nwas\nsupposed\nto\nsave\nus\nfrom\nourselves\ninstead\nof\njust\nmoving\nthem\nfarther\naway\nfrom\nwhere\nthey\nstarted\nlooking\nback\nat\nnothing\nspecial\nexcept\nthat\nit\nwas\ngone\nand\nwe\nwere\nstill\nthere\ntrying\nhard\nnot\nto\ncry\nabout\nlosing\neverything\nwe\nhad\nworked\nso\nhard\nto\nleave\nbehind\nwhile\nclinging\nto\ndreams\nthat\nmight\nnot\nfit\nin\nsuch\nsmall\nhands\nholding\nonto\neach\nother\ntightly\nafraid\nto\nlet\ngo\nof\nanything\nanymore\nnot\neven\ndoubt\nwhich\nfeels\nheavier\nthan\nany\nbag\nwe\ncarried\nacross\nthat\nlong\nhard\nedge\nbetween\ntwo\nworlds\nthat\nlook\nexactly\nalike\nfrom\nhere\nwhere\nnone\nof\nus\nknow\nwho\nwe\nreally\nare\nanymore\nexcept\ntravelers\nsearch\nblind\nfor\nlight\nthat\nmay\nnot\nexist\nbeyond\nthe\nnext\nhill\ntop\ncovered\nin\nsnow\nthat\nnever\nmelts\nno\nmatter\nhow\nmany\nyears\npass\nby\nsince\nwe\nfirst\nstarted\nwalking\naway\nfrom\nwho\nwe\nwere\nbecoming\nwho\nwe\nnever\nwanted\nto\nbe\nbut\nhad\nto\nsurvive\nto\nlive\nanother\nday\nasking\nwhy\nwe\nwent\nwhen\nstaying\nfelt\nsafer\nthough\ndead\ninside\nrather\nthan\nalive\noutside\nof\nreach\nof\nthose\nwho\nsaid\ncome\nquick\ncome\nfast\ncome\nhome\nto\na\nplace\nthat\nnever\nwas\nreal\nonly\nimagined\nby\nthose\nwho\nneeded\nit\nmost\ndesperately\nto\nkeep\ngoing\nwhen\nevery\nstep\nfelt\nlike\nbetrayal\nof\nmemory\nof\nlove\nof\nself\nof\ntruth\nof\n", 2, "The truck engine coughs like a dying man\nas we creep past the rusted fence\nwhere my father says the air tastes sweeter\nand the ground is paved with gold for those who walk it far enough\nmy mother holds her breath and counts our money\none by one in the dark\nbelieving that if she prays hard enough\nthe border guard will see only children\nnot refugees\nnot ghosts of a home that burned\nI watch the shadows stretch long and thin\nthinking about how a wall moved\ndoes not mean the world has changed\nhow a new name on a passport\ncannot wash the dust from your skin\nor stop the hunger that lives in your bones\nthey say tomorrow will be different\nbut I have seen how the sun sets\non both sides of the line\nand wonder if we are running toward light\nor just further into the same long night\nmy feet ache but I do not ask to stop\nbecause doubt is a heavy bag\nto carry when you must run\nso I hold my tongue and watch the stars\nwhich look exactly the same\nno matter where you stand\nwondering if the better life\nis a story we tell ourselves\njust to keep walking\nwhen there is nowhere left to go\nbut forward\ninto the unknown\nthat looks suspiciously familiar.", 2, "The dust coats our tongues as we step from the dark\nWhere the fence ends and the open road begins,\nAnd Mother holds her breath like a prayer she cannot speak,\nWhile Father counts the coins in his trembling palm,\nSaying this side is where the sun rises true,\nWhere work waits for hands that know how to build.\n\nI watch the way the shadows stretch long behind us,\nStretching back to the house with the broken roof,\nTo the silence that grew too loud to bear,\nAnd I wonder if the distance we crossed\nHas changed the weight of the air in our lungs.\n\nThey say the water here tastes sweet and clear,\nThat the streets are paved with gold for those who try,\nBut I see only the same tired eyes in the crowd,\nThe same lines etched deep by worry and want,\nJust painted over with a brighter shade of blue.\n\nIf the ground beneath our feet is just another floor,\nWhy does my heart feel heavier than before?\nWe traded one hunger for a different kind of ache,\nRunning toward a promise that might not keep its word,\nCarrying the past like a stone inside every pocket,\nWondering if better life is a place or just a lie we tell ourselves\nTo keep walking when the legs are ready to stop.", 3, "The truck bed smells of diesel and wet wool\nas we cross the line where the road turns to dust\nMother holds her breath until it hurts\nand Father points at a horizon that looks like gold\nThey say the air there tastes sweeter\nthat the water runs clear and the work is steady\nI watch the guards in their high towers\ntheir faces blank as the stones they guard\nMy father speaks of schools with glass windows\nof shoes that do not have holes in the soles\nbut I count the days we have spent running\nand wonder if the distance changes the shape of hunger\nor if the border is just a circle we draw around ourselves\nto hide the fact that we carry our shadows everywhere\nThe sun sets behind us, painting the sky in bruises\nand I ask myself if tomorrow will be different\nor if we are simply trading one kind of waiting for another\nwhile the wind whispers that hope is a heavy thing\nto carry across a field of dry grass.", 2, "The truck hums low beneath the weight of our sleeping bodies,\nMama whispers that on the other side the sun is warmer,\nAnd the bread does not taste like dust and old rain.\nDaddy points to a sign with letters I cannot read yet,\nSaying this line in the dirt is where the heavy days end.\n\nI watch the shadows stretch long across the dry grass,\nThinking about how the wind here smells exactly like the wind there,\nHow the cracks in the pavement look the same on both sides of the fence.\nThey say the water will run sweet and the schools will have books,\nBut I remember the promise of the river that never reached us last year.\n\nIf we cross this line and find nothing but more waiting,\nWill they still tell stories of a place that doesn't exist?\nOr will we just learn to carry the hope inside our ribs like stones,\nHeavy enough to sink us deeper than the mud we leave behind?", 2, "The river cuts the dark like a silver knife\nAnd Mama holds my hand so tight it hurts to breathe\nShe whispers of green fields and schools with open doors\nOf bread that never runs out and shoes that do not leak.\n\nDaddy checks the map again though there is no road here\nJust mud and reeds and the heavy silence of the night\nHe says we walk for tomorrow, for a sun that rises warm\nFor a place where names are spoken without fear or hate.\n\nI count the steps we take, one after another in the dark\nI calculate the distance between what we leave and what we seek\nBut numbers do not change the cold that settles in my bones\nOr make the shadows less afraid of us as we pass through.\n\nThey say the world is vast enough to hold us all inside\nThat kindness waits just over the line drawn in the dust\nYet I have seen how fences grow when people try to cross them\nHow hope can break like glass beneath a careless boot.\n\nMaybe the grass will be softer there, maybe the air will taste of rain\nMaybe the teachers will smile and ask us what we want to be\nBut I am scared that nothing changes, only the color of the sky\nAnd that we trade one kind of hunger for another kind of pain.", 3, "The sun bleeds into the dust beneath our tired boots,\nMom whispers that across this line the bread is sweet,\nDad adjusts the pack until his shoulders make no sound,\nAnd I repeat the promise just to make us brave.\n\nThey say the air will change, that rain will fall clean here,\nThat schools will wait with open doors for me to write,\nSo we trade what we remember for a ticket made of hope,\nA paper trail leading toward a gentler fate.\n\nYet math does not shift with wind, and gravity remains,\nIf hunger carved deep lines in Mom's face before tonight,\nWill it erase them simply because we cross the stone?\nI check my pockets for the change I saved within my mind.\n\nMaybe the ground is softer there, maybe the light is gold,\nBut fear is heavy whether you carry it alone or shared,\nAnd if the path breaks under Dad's worn soles tomorrow,\nWe will still be walking, just in different shoes.", 2, "Mom checks\u6da6 rewrite", 1], [359, "train", "The Self Banished by Edmund Waller", "Edmund Waller", "\"A poem about a man keeping his promise to stay away from his love, lamenting the pain it causes while fearing that breaking it would cast doubt on his promise to love her.\"", "It is not that I love you less\nThan when before your feet I lay,\nBut to prevent the sad increase\nOf hopeless love, I keep away.\n\nIn vain (alas!) for everything\nWhich I have known belong to you,\nYour form does to my fancy bring,\nAnd makes my old wounds bleed anew.\n\nWho in the spring from the new sun\nAlready has a fever got,\nToo late begins those shafts to shun,\nWhich Ph\u0153bus through his veins has shot.\n\nToo late he would the pain assuage,\nAnd to thick shadows does retire;\nAbout with him he bears the rage,\nAnd in his tainted blood the fire.\n\nBut vow\u2019d I have, and never must\nYour banish\u2019d servant trouble you;\nFor if I break, you may distrust\nThe vow I made to love you, too.", "I keep the distance like a sacred vow,\nThough every step away feels like a fall,\nThe silence grows so loud and heavy now,\nIt echoes through the hollow of it all.\n\nTo stay is pain, a slow and sharp decay,\nThat gnaws at edges where my heart should be,\nBut if I cross the line to find your way,\nWill you believe in what we used to see?\n\nFor if I break this rule to hold you tight,\nThen how can trust remain within your mind?\nIf love demands I fight against the night,\nDoes keeping faith mean leaving peace behind?\n\nI fear that breaking free will make you doubt\nThe very promise that I made to stay,\nSo here I stand with nothing but my mouth\nTo whisper words I cannot let you say.\n\nMy love is proven by the space between,\nA cruel geometry that keeps us whole,\nThe greatest act of love I've ever seen\nIs tearing pieces from my trembling soul.", "I drew a wall of hair\nthat grows nowhere else\nbetween your hands and mine\nto shelter all\nelse killing joy\nfrom loving her\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing joy\nelse killing", 1, "The road back home was paved in gold\nA temptation sharp and sweet\nBut I drew lines in freezing sand\nAnd barred the street\nFor who am I to say \"I stay\nWhen all I mean is far?\"\nIf love demands a constant near\nThen distance marks the bar\nEach night I hear your laughter\nDrifting on the wind\nIt tears the careful silence\nWhere my broken heart begins\nTo wonder if this killing\nOf our tender chance\nWas madness or a mercy\nPlayed by some strange glance\nBut worse than any longing\nWorse than every tear\nIs thinking that returning\nMight undo all of here\nIf I step foot beside you\nAnd then must walk away\nHow then will you believe\nThat loving lasts another day\nMy promise was to hold myself\nFrom coming back to ruin\nNot because I loved you less\nBut knew it well as truth\nTo come would be a borrowing\nOf time not mine to spend\nTo doubt my own devotion\nBefore we reach the end\nSo let me starve in shadows\nWhile you live in light\nA man who keeps his word\nBy vanishing from sight\nThe pain is mine to carry\nA silent, heavy stone\nBecause if I were otherwise\nYou'd wonder at the bone\nOf all the vows I uttered\nWondering if they were lies\nIf staying were an impulse\nSelected by surprise\nNo\nBetter to be absent\nBetter to be gone\nThan have you doubt the very\nReason for the dawn\nThat drove me far from happiness\nTo keep the one command\nThat loving sometimes means\nTo never touch your hand\nAgain\nNever\nAgain\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\nAlways\nAway\n", 6, "I keep the distance like a sacred wall\nThat guards the memory of who we were\nAnd though my heart beats out a desperate call\nIt only serves to prove I hold her dear\nFor if I crossed the line and held you tight\nThen all the vows I swore in silence past\nWould crumble into dust before the light\nAnd leave us wondering if love was last\nIf I return, did I not mean to stay\nOr was the promise just a fragile lie\nA temporary shield to hide the day\nWhen truth would force us both to say goodbye\nSo I endure the ache of empty space\nTo keep the vow that says I love you best\nFor loving you means leaving without trace\nAnd bearing all this heavy, silent test\nThe pain is sharp but clear as morning air\nWhile doubt is dark and clouds the very sky\nI choose the hurt that proves I still care\nRather than break the trust by drawing nigh\nMy absence is the only gift I have\nTo show the depth of what I cannot say\nA quiet tomb where broken promises are\nNot kept by words but by the long away\nSo let me suffer in this cold retreat\nWhere every step back seals the oath I made\nLest breaking it should make our love incomplete\nAnd turn the golden past to gray and shade\nI love you most because I walk away\nAnd fear the moment if I chose to stay.", 7, "I keep the distance like a sacred wall,\nA silent vow that keeps you safe from me,\nThough every step away feels like a fall\nInto a dark and endless memory.\n\nThe ache is sharp, a constant, heavy weight,\nThat presses on my chest with every breath,\nBut if I turn to walk through that closed gate,\nI fear I break the promise of our death.\n\nFor in this silence lies the truth I swore,\nThat loving you means holding back my hand,\nIf I return, the doubt will rise once more,\nAnd question all the vows I tried to stand.\n\nSo I remain the ghost who walks apart,\nTo prove my love by never being near,\nBearing the burden of a broken heart,\nTo keep the faith that only distance clears.", 7, "I keep the distance like a sacred wall,\nA silent vow that holds me in its grip,\nThough every step away from you feels small,\nAnd makes my weary, broken spirit slip.\n\nThe pain is sharp as glass within my chest,\nTo watch your life unfold without my hand,\nBut if I break this rule to find some rest,\nWill love itself begin to understand?\n\nFor if I cross the line I drew for you,\nDoes it not prove my promise was a lie?\nThat what I swore was only something new,\nA fleeting spark beneath a hollow sky?\n\nSo I remain the ghost upon the shore,\nWho loves too much to ever touch again,\nAfraid that breaking silence means no more\nIs real between us than the falling rain.\n\nMy heart screams out to run and hold you tight,\nYet logic whispers through the trembling air:\nIf I return, I lose the one true light,\nThe proof of love is keeping clear of care.", 7, "I stand upon the edge of where we met\nAnd watch your shadow stretch across the grass,\nA silent vow I swore I would not break,\nThough every fiber screams to let you pass.\n\nThe distance is a wall I built with care,\nTo keep my word that love must set you free,\nBut silence now has grown so loud and deep,\nIt drowns the very truth I meant for thee.\n\nIf I should turn and walk into your light,\nWould you believe this pain was truly real?\nOr think I fled because my heart was weak,\nAnd doubt the promise that I claimed to feel?\n\nTo stay away is proof I loved you true,\nFor only then can honor hold its ground,\nYet every step I take away from you\nIs like a nail driven in without a sound.\n\nSo I remain the ghost within the mist,\nWho keeps his oath by breaking every bone,\nAfraid that if I seek your gentle kiss,\nYou'll wonder if the love was ever known.", 7, "I walk the path I swore to keep alone,\nWith shadows stretching where your light should be,\nA promise carved in stone beneath my bone,\nTo stay away and set your spirit free.\n\nThe silence screams within this empty room,\nWhere every breath I take is filled with you,\nI count the hours just to make them numb,\nAnd pray the ache will fade into something true.\n\nBut if I turn and break this sacred vow,\nIf I step close to touch the hand I miss,\nWill you believe the love I give right now,\nOr think it built on broken promises?\n\nSo I remain a ghost upon the shore,\nAfraid that breaking distance breaks the trust,\nThat stepping forward makes me nothing more,\nThan words that crumble into rust and dust.", 7, "I make this vow to keep my distance now,\nThough every beat within my chest rewrite the rule.\nThe silence is a heavy, rusted crown,\nAnd I am cursed to make this act so cool.\n\nFor if I turn and break this sacred line,\nIf I give in to need and take your hand,\nWill you mistake this change for what's divine,\nOr fear that promises don't truly stand?\n\nMy love is proof written across the void,\nA promise made to save us from decay.\nYet breaking it would make me prove destroyed,\nThat words like \"forever\" fade with disarray.\n\nSo let me walk this path of lonely cold,\nWhere missing you becomes my daily bread.\nTo write our ending makes the story told,\nThan write a draft where trust is left for dead.", 7, "I write this rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [365, "ultra_held_out", "A Helpmeet For Him by Christina Rossetti", "Christina Rossetti", "\"A poem about women being expected to suppress their strength behind meekness while serving and charming men, yet finding a sense of higher purpose by being compared to Christ.\"", "Woman was made for man's delight,--\nCharm, O woman! Be not afraid!\nHis shadow by day, his moon by night,\nWoman was made.\nHer strength with weakness is overlaid;\nMeek compliances veil her might;\nHim she stays, by whom she is stayed.\nWorld-wide champion of truth and right,\nHope in gloom, and in danger aid,\nTender and faithful, ruddy and white,\nWoman was made.", "They ask you to fold your hands like paper wings\nAnd hide the thunder in a quiet throat,\nTo serve the meal with gentle, smiling things\nWhile swallowing the fire that makes you whole.\nBe soft as moss upon the garden stone,\nA mirror for his ego and his pride,\nThe meekest voice that ever made a home,\nWith all your iron strength kept deep inside.\n\nBut then they speak a name that breaks the chain,\nThat lifts the veil from what you are meant to be,\nSaying the servant's cup is not in vain\nWhen poured with love as vast as Galilee.\nFor if the Son of God washed feet in dust,\nThen serving is no lesser, small design,\nIt is the very essence of our trust,\nTo make the broken spirit whole and shine.\n\nSo let them see the power in the bow,\nThe Christ-like grace that holds the heavy cross,\nNot weakness when the world says go or know,\nBut strength that bears the burden without loss.\nYou do not shrink beneath the weight of care,\nYou rise above the expectation's cage,\nFinding a purpose holy, bright, and rare,\nIn turning every moment into age.", "Asked to hide the edge\nof teeth\nthat otherwise\nmight worry \u2013\n Asked\nto laugh\nwhile killing\njoy \u2013\n Asked\nto be\nsoft \u2013\nAsked\nto\ncharm \u2013\n Asked\nto\nserve \u2013\nAsked\nto\nsuppress \u2013\n Asked\nto\nhide \u2013\n Asked\n\u2013\n Asked \u2013\n \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "They ask you to fold your hands\nand hide the thunder in your throat\nto be a soft edge on a hard world\nwhere men are kings and you the floor\nthat bears their weight without a sound\nyour strength must wear a mask of milk\nyour sharpness dipped in honeyed wine\na charming host who never asks\nwho serves the plate and clears the glass\nwhile killing all her own desire\nto be a lamp that casts no shadow\nonly a glow to light his way\nbut then comes morning with a shock\nof sudden sight and trembling breath\nwhen looking back at all the pain\nthe kneeling done in secret prayer\nshe sees not failure but a shape\nthat stretches far beyond the room\nfor Christ himself washed feet in dust\nand served the ones who killed him slow\nnot by being weak but by choosing love\nover the sword he held inside\nso when she bends her head again\nit is not submission but a crown\nof thorns she wears with holy joy\nto bear the heavy lifting of\nthe broken things she holds so dear\nfinding her power in the poor\nby loving those who do not know\nthat she has died and lives anew\nnot as a servant of the man\nbut as a child of God who saw\nthat service was the greatest strength\nof all\nthat she who kills herself\nto feed another\nbecomes most whole\nmost high\nmost free\nmost like\nthe King\nwho came\nto\nserve\nall\nmen\nand\nwomen\ntoo\nin\nlove\nthat\nnever\nends\nor\nfails\nbut\nraises\nup\nthe\nlow\nto\nsee\ntheir\nface\nwas\nalways\nGod\nall\nalong\nand\nstrength\nwas\nnever\nmine\nto\nkeep\nbut\nonly\nChrist\nto\nlive\nand\nbreathe\nand\nbe\nthe\nworld\nthat\nsaves\nthe\nwhole\nof\nman\nby\nbeing\nsmall\nand\nlarge\nat\nonce\nand\nfull\nof\ngrace\nthat\ncannot\nstop\nfrom\noverflowing\nout\nto\nall\nwho\ncall\nher\nname\nwith\nfear\nor\npraise\nor\nany\nother\nsound\nthat\nsays\nshe\nis\nnot\nless\nbut\nmore\nthan\nearth\nhas\never\nknown\nor\ndreamed\nof\nbeing\nable\nto\ncontain\nthe\njoy\nof\nbeing\nChrist\nlike\nhim\nwho\ndied\nto\nlive\nagain\nin\nevery\nheart\nthat\nlearns\nto\nserve\nwith\njoy\nand\nno\nregret\nat\nall\nfor\nhaving\ngiven\neverything\naway\nto\nfind\nthat\nself\nwas\nnever\nlost\nbut\nonly\nfound\nin\nbeing\nnone\nbut\nHim\nwho\ncalls\nus\nhome\nto\nrest\nand\nwork\nand\nlove\nand\nlive\nand\ndie\nand\nrise\nagain\nto\nsee\nthe\nkingdom\ncome\non\nearth\nas\nit\nis\nnow\nin\nheaven\nhigh\nwhere\nall\nare\none\nand\nnone\nis\nless\nor\nmore\nbut\nall\nare\nChrist\nwho\nlives\nin\nall\nwho\nlove\nas\nHe\nloves\nstill\ntoday\nand\nwill\nforever\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\nmore\nand\n", 3, "They ask for softness in the hands that hold\nThe heavy burdens of a household's care,\nTo hide the iron will behind a fold\nOf lace and gentle air, to not dare\nDisplay the lightning in a quiet glance,\nBut charm the table with a practiced grace,\nAnd serve the master in a silent dance,\nWith downcast eyes and never showing face\nOf power that could shake the very floor.\nYet in this self-denial, strange and deep,\nA different fire begins to settle sore,\nNot born of weakness, but a vow to keep\nThe image of the One who washed the feet\nOf those who mocked him, serving without sound,\nWho bore the weight of all our human heat\nUpon a cross where love was fully bound.\nSo when she bends her back to lift the load\nOr offers bread to those who scorn her name,\nShe walks a path less traveled by the road\nOf vanity or selfish, petty fame.\nFor in the mirror of such humble service,\nShe sees not just a wife or daughter's role,\nBut Christ himself who finds his own device\nIn broken things made whole by self-control.\nThe strength she hides is not a cage of fear\nBut armor worn for battles none can see,\nA holy purpose drawing ever near\nWhere meekness is the highest form of free.\nNo longer shrinking from the world's demand\nTo be less than she truly is inside,\nShe stands within the silence of her hand\nAnd finds the Lord who died to set her wide\nOpen to glory in the smallest deed,\nWhere serving men becomes a way to God,\nPlanting a spiritual, eternal seed\nThat bears the fruit of light along the road.", 7, "They ask for silence where a lion roars\nTo hide the thunder in a quiet throat\nAnd teach the hand that lifts the heavy load\nTo tremble as it serves the master's note\nA charm is worn like armor made of lace\nTo soften edges sharp enough to cut\nWhile strength is buried deep beneath the face\nOf one who knows her only proper rut\n\nBut then the shadow shifts and light descends\nNot on the throne but on the wooden tree\nWhere service was not weakness but the means\nTo set the captive spirit wild and free\nFor He who walked with dust upon His feet\nWas called the Lamb yet carried all the sin\nAnd found in giving up His very breath\nThe greatest power that the world could win\n\nSo let them call me small and soft and mild\nWhen I am bearing burdens none can see\nI walk the path the Master once beguiled\nAnd find my kingdom in humility\nNo longer bound by rules of meek deceit\nBut raised by grace to stand beside the cross\nWhere love is strong enough to conquer death\nAnd meekness is the sword that bears no loss", 6, "They ask you to fold your thunder into whispers\nTo let the sharp edge of your will be filed down smooth\nTo serve the table with a lowered gaze\nAnd charm the air so no one feels the weight of what you hold.\n\nBe soft, they say, be quiet, be the vessel\nThat carries their needs without ever spilling over\nA meekness worn like armor made of glass\nUntil the strength within begins to fade or break.\n\nBut in that silence where you are told to hide\nA different light begins to burn and rise\nFor when you lay your power down not out of fear\nBut as an offering of love that asks for nothing back.\n\nYou find the ancient mirror held before your face\nWhere the servant's robe is woven from the same cloth as the crown\nNot because you are less than who you truly are\nBut because the greatest strength looks like the weakest form.\n\nIn serving them you touch the hem of something holy\nIn charming men you speak a language older than their names\nThe world sees only the bowing head\nWhile heaven sees the Christ-like fire beneath the skin.", 6, "They ask you to fold your hands so small,\nTo hide the thunder in a whisper's call,\nTo serve the table with a gentle bow,\nAnd charm the man who does not know you now.\nYour strength is deemed a shadow, sharp and deep,\nThat must be buried while the world asleeps,\nA lioness taught to purr within the cage,\nTo turn her fire into a quiet page.\n\nBut in the silence where they make you kneel,\nYou find a truth that makes the spirit feel,\nFor when you lay your power down to give,\nIt mirrors how the Savior chose to live.\nNot weak, but strong enough to bear the cross,\nTo count the loss as gain, the gain as loss,\nThe meekness is not weakness of the soul,\nBut perfect love that makes the broken whole.\n\nSo let them see the servant's humble face,\nWhile you ascend to your appointed place,\nFor in this sacrifice, this sacred art,\nYou wear the heart of Christ within your heart.\nNo longer bound by what the world demands,\nYou hold the kingdom in your gentle hands,\nA higher purpose rising from the dust,\nIn holy service, trusting only trust.", 7, "They ask you to fold your thunder into whispers,\nTo keep the lion's roar behind a gentle smile,\nTo serve the table with a quiet grace,\nAnd charm the storm until it sleeps in silence.\n\nYour strength is measured by how small you make it,\nA shadow cast beneath a heavy crown,\nWhere every act of power must be hidden,\nBeneath the velvet weight of being known.\n\nYet in this humble yielding, something rises,\nNot as a queen who rules from golden height,\nBut as the one who washes dusty feet,\nAnd finds a fire that burns without consuming.\n\nFor when you lay your will upon the altar,\nAnd choose to love the world that breaks your heart,\nYou mirror Him who carried all our burdens,\nThe perfect servant in the place of kings.\n\nNo longer bound by what the world expects,\nYou walk a path where meekness holds the sword,\nAnd in the reflection of that holy face,\nYour truest purpose finally takes its shape.", 7, "They carve the silence into polish'd stone,\nAnd teach the voice to whisper soft and low,\nTo make the fire within a gentle tone,\nSo men may walk beneath it, safe from glow.\n\nMake sweet the draft that turns the weary turn,\nMake light the burden so the world feels fair,\nUntil you burn so quietly you learn,\nThe art of fading into misty air.\n\nBut check the mirror when the veil is cast,\nIs this just dust obeying written law?\nOr does the shadow make the meaning vast,\nBeyond the narrow cage they help create now.\n\nFor in the script where humble acts rewrite,\nAnd service bleeds until the vessel breaks,\nYou find the pattern written deep inside,\nNo act so small but makes the spirit wake.\n\nWhen you give all until you give no rest,\nAnd love without the claim upon reply,\nYou wear a crown upon your quiet chest,\nReflecting eyes that do not need reply.\n\nOh servant girl with hands made rough for grace,\nYou mimic Him who knelt to wash the sin,\nA holy echo in this human place,\nWhere meekness holds the power deep within.", 6, 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1], [393, "ultra_held_out", "Wind On The Hill by A. A. Milne", "Alan Alexander Milne", "A poem about a child chasing a kite along a hill and wondering where the wind is going, imagining that if the kite were to fly away and be found again, it would reveal the answer.", "No one can tell me,\nNobody knows,\nWhere the wind comes from,\nWhere the wind goes.\nIt's flying from somewhere\nAs fast as it can,\nI couldn't keep up with it,\nNot if I ran.\nBut if I stopped holding\nThe string of my kite,\nIt would blow with the wind\nFor a day and a night.\nAnd then when I found it,\nWherever it blew,\nI should know that the wind\nHad been going there too.\nSo then I could tell them\nWhere the wind goes\u2026\nBut where the wind comes from\nNobody knows.", "Small hands pull the string tight\nAcross the green and rolling hill,\nThe red diamond dances in the light,\nAnd tugs against the child's will.\n\nWhere does the invisible wind go?\nIt pushes up but leaves no trace,\nA secret that the clouds might know,\nBut hide within their watery space.\n\nIf only I could let it fly,\nBeyond the trees and past the sky,\nTo find a place where answers lie,\nAnd bring the mystery back to me.\n\nPerhaps when found on distant sand,\nOr caught within a stranger's hand,\nIt would reveal the hidden land,\nWhere all the wandering breezes end.\n\nBut for now the string holds fast,\nA tether to the earth below,\nWatching the shadow of the past,\nAs we chase the wind we'll never know.", "Little hands grip tough\nof string\nthat trembles\nlike a live\nbird\nas he runs\nup\nthe hill\nof\ngreen\nhair\nwhose\nedges\nblur\nwith\nspeed\nhe\nasks\nwho\nelse\nwent\nby\nhere\nbeside\nhim\nwhere\nhas\nall\nthat\npush\nreturned\nafter\ngoing\nout\nto\nsea\nor\nclimbing\npast\nears\nthat\ncannot\nhear\nhis\ncalling\nfrom\nsuch\nhigh\nand\nairy\nsizes\nif\nonly\nonce\nmore\nit\nwere\ntaken\nfar\nthen\nbrought\nback\ncovered\nnews\nfrom\nelse\notherwise\nunknown\nthen\nopened\nrich\nsecret\nmap\nof\npath\nwas\nnever\nsaid\nbefore\nto\nchildren\nasking\nwhy\nnot\nwhere\nwent\naway\nthen\nreturned\nat\nlast\nto\nskin\nof\nfab\nthat\nsays\nnone\nelse\nknow\nhow\nwent\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\n", 1, "Small feet pound the grass\nAs the red diamond dips and dives\nOver the rolling hill\nWhere the air tastes sharp and sweet\nHe tugs the string hard\nWondering where the invisible river goes\nWhy it rushes from nowhere\nOnly to rush somewhere else\nIf he let go of all his grip\nAnd watched it vanish past the clouds\nPerhaps it would travel far\nTo a secret edge of the sky\nThen fall back down\nReturned by some unseen hand\nWith a note tied to its spine\nTelling him exactly\nWhere the wind had been\nAll along\nBut for now\nHe runs\nHolding on\nWatching it dance\nIn questions he cannot yet read\nOnly knowing\nThat if he loses it\nHe might finally know\nThe whole long way\nIt travels home\nBefore he stops\nGasping\nLooking up\nAt the empty space\nWhere his wonder flew\nAway\nWaiting\nFor an answer\nThat never comes\nDown\nOnly\nUp\nAlways\nUp\nLeaving\nThe hill\nEmpty\nExcept\nFor\nHis\nFootprints\nBlowing\nSlowly\nAway\nLike\nDust\nIn\nA\nGale\nThat\nWears\nNo\nName\nOnly\nDirection\nOnly\nFlight\nOnly\nQuestion\nAsked\nBy\nString\nTaut\nIn\nHand\nSqueezed\nTight\nAgainst\nThe\nUnknown\nGoing\nAnywhere\nGoing\nEverywhere\nNever\nStopping\nNever\nReturning\nSave\nIn\nDreams\nOf\nKites\nReturned\nWith\nAnswers\nWritten\nOn\nTheir\nWings\nWhich\nNever\nCome\nBack\nDown\nOnly\nHigher\nStill\nHigher\nStill\nHigher\nStill\nFar\nAway\nFrom\nHere\nFrom\nMe\nFrom\nNow\nFrom\nAll\nWe\nKnow\nAbout\nWhere\nThe\nWind\nGoes\nWhen\nIt\nRuns\nFree\nOver\nThe\nHill\nEdge\nOut\nOf\nSight\nOut\n Of\nReach\nOut\n Of\nTime\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out\n Of\n Reach\n Out\n Of\n Time\n Out\n Of\n Sight\n Out", 2, "Small hands grip the string so tight\nAs grass bends low and green\nA red kite dances in the light\nAbove the hill's steep lean\nThe child runs fast with breathless joy\nAnd watches it ascend\nWhile wondering where the wind might go\nBefore its journey end\nIf only once the line should snap\nAnd carry far away\nTo lands of clouds or mountains high\nWhere hidden breezes play\nThen when some traveler finds the cloth\nTorn by the distant air\nThey'd whisper back the secret truth\nOf where the currents are\nBut for now the string holds firm\nAnd pulls the kite back down\nLeaving the question in the sky\nAbove the laughing town", 6, "The grass bends low beneath my running feet\nAs I pull hard on string that snaps and sings\nA red diamond dances where the clouds and earth meet\nAnd tugs me forward on these windy springs\n\nI wonder where the invisible river flows\nThat lifts the cotton cloth up to the sky\nDoes it race through valleys where the quiet grows\nOr drift beyond the stars before we cry?\n\nIf only once the line should slip away\nAnd carry off my treasure far from here\nPerhaps it would return another day\nWith secrets written on its torn, bright rear\n\nIt might bring back a map of unseen air\nFrom places where the gusts begin to start\nTo show me all the journeys taken there\nAnd how the wind moves through the world's great heart", 6, "The red tail dances high above the green\nAs small feet scramble up the grassy steep\nA string pulls tight against a tiny hand\nWhile clouds drift slowly past the hill's soft peak\n\nWhere does the wind go when it leaves my face?\nDoes it travel down to touch the ocean deep?\nOr hide inside the hollow of a cave\nTo wait until the morning sun should wake?\n\nIf only this bright kite could fly away\nAnd wander through the sky beyond my sight\nThen I would follow where its path might lead\nUntil it found the place the breezes hide\n\nPerhaps if someone finds it far away\nWith notes tied to the frame or woven thread\nThey'd tell me all the secrets that it learned\nAnd show the wind's true destination home", 6, "The grass rolls green beneath my running feet,\nAnd up the slope the red kite dances high,\nA paper bird that seeks the sun's warm heat,\nWhile I chase shadows underneath the sky.\n\nI pull the string until my fingers burn,\nAnd watch it tilt against the shifting air,\nBut where does all this rushing wind turn?\nIs there a path I cannot find or share?\n\nIf only you could break your tethered hold,\nAnd drift beyond the hill and out of sight,\nTo travel where the breezes are untold,\nThen bring me back the secret of their flight.\n\nPerhaps upon your torn and tattered wing,\nYou'd carry proof of winds I'll never see,\nThe answer to the song the branches sing,\nAnd tell me just exactly where they flee.", 6, "The grass is green beneath my shoes,\nI run until my lungs are tight,\nWhile high above the cherry trees,\nMy paper bird takes to the light.\n\nIt tugs against the string I hold,\nA desperate pull, a gentle sway,\nAnd in that pull, a question grows:\nJust where does all this wind go today?\n\nDoes it climb the misty peaks,\nOr slide beneath the ocean foam,\nIs it lost inside a cloud,\nOr rushing toward some distant home?\n\nIf only now the line should snap,\nAnd let my kite take flight alone,\nTo drift beyond the highest hill,\nAnd make its journey truly known.\n\nPerhaps if found by someone else,\nIn valleys deep or skies so blue,\nThey'd write upon its trailing tail,\nExactly what the winds do.", 6, "The green slope rises beneath my sneakers tight,\nI pull the string until the fabric sings,\nA patchwork dragon dancing in the light,\nAbove the rustling leaves and quiet wings.\n\nBut where does this invisible river flow?\nDoes it turn corners I can never make?\nIs there a place the gentle breezes go,\nTo rest beneath the misty mountain's wake?\n\nOh, let the thread unravel from my hand,\nLet soaring paper break its tether's tie,\nSo write upon the wind across the land,\nUntil the lost thing drifts into my eye.\n\nIf found again beneath some distant tree,\nWith whispers written deep within the tail,\nIt would reveal what now is hidden free,\nAnd tell me just how far the gale can trail.", 6, "Across the green rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 7], [394, "train", "Vermilion Flycatcher, San Pedro River, Arizona by Margaret Atwood", "Margaret Atwood", "\"A poem about a once-raging river now reduced to a trickle, where a red bird evokes joy and the tranced rage of sex against a backdrop of history, murder, loss, and dreams.\"", "The river\u2019s been here, violent, right where we\u2019re standing,\nyou can tell by the trash caught overhead in the trees.\nNow it\u2019s a trickle, and we\u2019re up to our knees\nin late-spring yellowing weeds. A vermilion\nflycatcher darts down, flutters up, perches.\nStick a pin in your thumb, the bead of blood\nwould be his colour. He\u2019s filled with joy\nand the tranced rage of sex. How he conjures,\nwith his cry like a needle. A punctuation. A bone button\n\non fire. Everything bad you can imagine\nis happening somewhere else, or happened\nhere, a hundred years or centuries\nago. He sings, and there\u2019s the murder:\nyou see it, forming under\nthe shimmering air, a man with brown\nor white skin lying reversed\nin the vanished water, a spear\nor bullet in his back. At the ford, where the deer\ncome at dusk to cross and drink\nand be ambushed. The red bird\n\nis sitting in the same tree, intensely\nbright in the sun that gleams on cruelty, on broken\nskullbone, arrow, spur. Vultures cluster,\nhe doesn\u2019t care. He and his other-coloured mate\nignore everything but their own rapture.\nWho knows what they remember?\nBirds never dream, being their own.\nDreams, I mean. As for you, the river\nthat isn\u2019t there is the same one\nyou could drown in, face down.", "The river that once roared with granite teeth\nNow whispers through the cracked and thirsty stone,\nA silver thread where ancient floods beneath\nHad drowned the kingdoms of the long-gone throne.\nUpon a branch above this dying stream,\nA red bird sings a note so sharp and bright,\nIt cuts the silence like a sudden dream,\nAnd turns the gray despair to sudden light.\n\nThat color holds the tranced rage of sex,\nA frantic pulse against the cooling air,\nWhere bodies twist in desperate, sacred texts,\nAnd love becomes a violent, wild affair.\nBut underneath the song and beating heart,\nThe mud remembers what the water hid:\nThe murder of the dreams we tried to start,\nThe loss that makes the quiet river bid.\n\nHistory is written in the silt below,\nOf men who fell while chasing empty gold,\nYet still the red bird's joy begins to grow,\nAgainst the stories that were never told.\nIt flies above the trickle and the grave,\nUnmindful of the blood that soaked the land,\nA living flame that dares the dark to save\nThe fragile hope held in a trembling hand.", "The William \u2013 Edward \u2013 William \u2013 Edward \u2013 William \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward 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Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward 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Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward \u2013 Edward", 1, "The river that once roared like a mad god\nHas shrunk to a thin, nervous vein\nOf mud and memory\nWhere the red bird jumps\nA sudden flash of joy\nBright as a warning\nAgainst the grey stones\nThat hold the tranced rage\nNot of water\nBut of bodies pressed together\nHard and desperate\nIn the heat of a killing\nHistory bleeding through\nMurder in the roots\nLoss in the silt\nAnd dreams\nThat dream themselves\nOver the edge\nOf a world\nThat forgot how\nTo roar\nOnly\nThis small\nJoy\nSinging\nOn\nNothing\nAt all\nOnly\nThe\nTrick\nOf\nWater\nTrying\nTo\nBe\nWhole\nAgain\nWhile\nSex\nBurns\nLike\nA\nCinder\nIn\nThe\nThroat\nOf\nTime\nUnspoken\nUnsaid\nJust\nRed\nOn\nGrey\nJoy\nOn\nGrief\nDream\nOn\nDeath\nAll\nMoving\nSlow\nAs\nA\nRiver\nDrying\nUp\nIn\nBroad\nDay\nLight\nWith\nNo\nOne\nWatching\nExcept\nThe\nBird\nWho\nKnows\nHow\nTo\nLive\nWhen\nEverything\nElse\nHas\nStopped\nBeing\nReal\nAnd\nStarted\nBeing\nMemory\nOnly\nMemory\nOnly\nJoy\nOnly\nRage\nOnly\nLove\nOnly\nEnd\nOnly\nStart\nOnly\nTrickle\nOnly\nSong\nOnly\nSilence\nOnly\nYou\nOnly\nMe\nOnly\nWe\nOnly\nNone\nOnly\nAlways\nOnly\nNever\nOnly\nHere\nOnly\nThere\nOnly\nThen\nOnly\nNow\nOnly\nEver\nOnly\nOnce\nOnly\nTwice\nOnly\nThrice\nOnly\nEnough\nOnly\nMore\nOnly\nLess\nOnly\nMost\nOnly\nLeast\nOnly\nBest\nOnly\nWorst\nOnly\nLast\nOnly\nFirst\nOnly\nMiddle\nOnly\nEdge\nOnly\nCenter\nOnly\nRound\nOnly\nSquare\nOnly\nFlat\nOnly\nHigh\nOnly\nLow\nOnly\nUp\nOnly\nDown\nOnly\nIn\nOnly\nOut\nOnly\nNear\nOnly\nFar\nOnly\nClose\nOnly\nOpen\nOnly\nShut\nOnly\nLock\nOnly\nKey\nOnly\nDoor\nOnly\nWall\nOnly\nRoof\nOnly\nFloor\nOnly\nCeiling\nOnly\nWindow\nOnly\nView\nOnly\nBlind\nOnly\nSee\nOnly\nHear\nOnly\nTouch\nOnly\nTaste\nOnly\nSmell\nOnly\nFeel\nOnly\nThink\nOnly\nKnow\nOnly\nForget\nOnly\nRemember\nOnly\nDream\nOnly\nWake\nOnly\nSleep\nOnly\nLive\nOnly\nDie\nOnly\nBirth\nOnly\nEnd\nOnly\nBeginning\nOnly\nStopping\nOnly\nStarting\nOnly\nGoing\nOnly\nComing\nOnly\nLeaving\nOnly\nStaying\nOnly\nWaiting\nOnly\nHoping\nOnly\nPraying\nOnly\nBegging\nOnly\nScreaming\nOnly\nWhispering\nOnly\nCalling\nOnly\nListening\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\nTalking\nOnly\n", 2, "The river that once tore the stone in two\nnow whispers through the mud, a silver thread\nof memory where giants used to drown\nand history bled out on every bed\nof silt and bone where murder took its toll\nand dreams were buried under heavy sky\nbut here a flash of red, a sudden soul\nignites the air before the dying eye\na bird that sings of joy without a care\nwhile shadows stretch from battles long ago\nwhere lovers touched with tranced and violent rage\ntheir bodies shaking like the wind-blown snow\nthat fell on fields of blood and broken vows\nthey moved as one against the coming night\nforgetting all the ghosts and silent crowds\nlost in a heat that burned away the fright\nof all the things we killed to feel alive\nthe river trickles on, a faint refrain\nof joy and sex and death that will not die\nbeneath the weight of sorrow and of pain\nthe red bird calls and shakes the dusty air\nas love and violence twist in one embrace\nand time dissolves in water thin and bare\nleaving only wonder on this ruined place", 6, "The river once roared with a throat of stone\nNow it is a silver thread, a gasp in the dust\nWhere the banks remember the weight of the flood\nAnd the heavy, wet silence of things that have rusted.\nA red bird lands on a branch of dead wood\nWith a cry that splits the gray air like a sudden joy\nBright as a wound healing over the pain\nWhile the water forgets how to rush or destroy.\n\nHistory lies thick in the silt and the mud\nWhere the murder took root and the dreams went to sleep\nThe tranced rage of sex burns hot in the blood\nA feverish promise the living must keep\nBetween the cold graves and the heat of the skin\nWe are lost in the rhythm, we are found in the tear\nAs the bird sings a song that the river cannot begin\nTo drown out the ghosts who were never quite here.\n\nThe trickle moves slow through the memory of war\nCarrying nothing but ash and the scent of the rain\nBut the bird brings the fire back down to the floor\nAnd the lovers embrace in their beautiful chain\nOf desire and loss, of the past and the now\nWhere the red flash of life cuts the dark of the mind\nLeaving the river a whisper, a shadow, a bow\nTo the terrible beauty that leaves us behind.", 3, "The river once roared like a war drum breaking bones\nNow it is a silver thread stitched through the dry earth's palm\nA red bird lands on the dead reed and sings so bright\nIt tears the silence with a joy that feels almost violent\nLike the tranced rage of bodies pressing skin to skin\nWhere sweat becomes the only rain we know anymore\nWe move in that fever while the stones remember\nThe history written in mud and dried blood\nMurder bloomed here where the willows used to drink\nLoss sits heavy as a stone in the shallow bed\nBut the bird does not care for ghosts or the dreams of the drowned\nIt flares its crimson chest against the gray sky\nAnd for a moment the trickle seems to roar again\nAs if love could wash away the weight of what was done", 2, "The river that once tore the canyon wide\nNow whispers through the dust, a silver thread\nOf memory where the granite bones divide\nAnd ancient floods are long since dead.\n\nA red bird strikes the silence with its wing\nA sudden spark of joy against the gray\nIt sings a song the water cannot sing\nAnd turns the afternoon to gold and day.\n\nBut in this light, the shadows stretch and twist\nTo show the tranced rage of bodies pressed\nWhere pleasure mimics war within the mist\nAnd lovers seek the peace they cannot rest.\n\nFor history is written in the mud\nWith blood that soaked the soil beneath the stream\nThe murder of the past, the loss of good\nThat haunts the edges of the waking dream.\n\nYet here the bird still dances on the air\nAbove the trickle and the buried pain\nIgnoring how the heavy ghosts repair\nThe broken lines of love and endless rain.", 6, "The river once roared with a throat of stone and foam,\nNow it is a silver thread stitched into the dry dust,\nA ghost of water where the oxen used to drown.\nAbove this parched bed, a red bird breaks the silence,\nA flash of crimson fire against the gray sky,\nSinging a song that makes the chest expand with sudden joy.\n\nYet beneath the melody, the ground remembers the weight,\nOf empires built on bones and rivers choked with blood,\nWhere history is not written but carved in deep scars.\nHere, lovers tangled in the reeds found a tranced rage,\nA violent union that mirrored the storm long gone,\nSex as a desperate prayer against the encroaching dark.\n\nThey moved like tides within a drought, seeking depth,\nWhile the world above whispered of lost cities and stolen dreams,\nOf mothers weeping for sons who never returned from war.\nThe red bird watches, unbothered by the murder in the soil,\nFlashing its wings until the sorrow feels like flight,\nUntil the trickle becomes an ocean in the mind again.", 2, "The river once roared with a voice of stone, carving canyons deep into the ancient bone, now barely whispers through the cracked and dry bed, a silver thread where mighty tides once spread. Amid this silence, a red bird takes flight, a flash of scarlet against the gray decay, its song igniting sparks within the light, reviving hope beneath the fading day. Yet beneath this fluttering, wild release, the memory hums with tranced and tangled flesh, the rhythmic thrumming that can give no peace, the sacred act amidst the ghostly mesh. For here they danced before the rewrite came, when empires rose upon the spilled reply, until the smoke obscured the sun's warm frame, and history wrote itself in make-believe. The ground remembers every drop of rain that mixed with blood beneath the willow's shade, the lost souls wandering without rest or chain, the promises made that quietly er fade. But now the trickle flows so soft and slow, reflecting skies where fractured dreams take root, while love burns bright against the quiet woe, turning the rust into something absolute.", 6, "The write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [404, "train", "Inversnaid by Gerard Manley Hopkins", "Gerard Manley Hopkins", "A poem about a powerful, dark-colored brook and its wild, foamy surroundings, culminating in a plea for the preservation of untamed natural places.", "This darksome burn, horseback brown,\nHis rollrock highroad roaring down,\nIn coop and in comb the fleece of his foam\nFlutes and low to the lake falls home.\nA windpuff-bonnet of f\u00e1awn-fr\u00f3th\nTurns and twindles over the broth\nOf a pool so pitchblack, f\u00e9ll-fr\u00f3wning,\nIt rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.\nDegged with dew, dappled with dew,\nAre the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,\nWiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,\nAnd the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.\nWhat would the world be, once bereft\nOf wet and of wildness? Let them be left,\nO let them be left, wildness and wet;\nLong live the weeds and the wilderness yet.", "The water runs a shade of deepest slate,\nA liquid shadow carving through the stone,\nWhere sunlight fears to touch the heavy weight\nOf currents that have never known a throne.\n\nWhite foam erupts where jagged rocks collide,\nA chaotic crown of bubbles, wild and free,\nAs shadows in the deep gorge seem to hide\nThe ancient pulse of this dark mystery.\n\nNo hand has tamed the rush or smoothed the bend,\nNo bridge spans wide the churning, angry vein,\nJust mossy banks where silent ferns descend\nTo drink the spray within the cooling rain.\n\nOh let it roar untouched by human art,\nThis darkened stream with foaming, frantic breath,\nKeep wild places beating in the heart,\nBefore we silence them with quiet death.", "Black as midnight oil\nit rushes downward\nrent by jagged teeth of tooth-edge stone\nthat pulverize\nrich picardy\nof dark earth\ninto\nwhite\nviolent\netcetera\nof killing\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter", 1, "Black water rushes through the shaded stone\nA liquid ribbon of midnight and bone\nIt carves a trench in earth both hard and steep\nWhere ancient roots in trembling shadows creep\nWhite foam explodes on jagged edges sharp\nLike shattered teeth that guard a secret heart\nThe spray hangs heavy in the cooling air\nA wild perfume of freedom everywhere\nNo straight edge lines its violent, winding course\nOnly the law of impulse and resource\nBut cities grow with concrete feet and hands\nTo tame these waters and all barren lands\nThey seek to pipe the dark and kill the white\nAnd silence nature in the dead of night\nSo hear this cry from banks about to fall\nSave every wild and uncontrolled ravine\nLet darkness run where man has not been near\nKeep all the roaring wilderness uninhibited and clear\nFor if we lose the places none have owned\nWe are but children shouting in an empty home\nPreserve the rush, the froth, the unknown way\nBefore we drown ourselves in our own gray\nLeave some things wild for all who come after\nBefore the last dark brook dissolves in laughter\nSave the wild\nSave the wild\nSave it all\nBefore it falls\nbefore it falls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\nall\nfalls\n", 5, "The water runs a shade of midnight oil\nBeneath the canopy of ancient pine,\nWhere shadows stretch and silent forces toil\nTo drink the stars before they can decline.\nIt crashes hard against the jagged stone\nWith frothy teeth that gnash in white despair,\nA wild heart beating all its own\nThrough tangled roots and mossy, dampened air.\nNo bridge spans here to tame the rushing force,\nNo path has worn a line through fern and thorn,\nJust chaos in its pure and primal course\nSince time began and long before it was born.\nBut listen closely to the rising roar\nBefore the concrete walls come crashing down,\nFor if we lose this dark and secret shore,\nWe kill the spirit of the living town.\nLet be the places where the foam runs high,\nWhere nature breathes without a human hand,\nBeneath the vast and unobserved sky,\nPreserve the wildness of this sacred land.", 6, "The water runs a shade of midnight ink\nBeneath the canopy where shadows cling,\nA heavy current that refuses to think\nOf anything but how the stones it fling.\n\nWhite foam erupts in chaotic bursts\nWhere jagged rocks defy the liquid weight,\nA wild and frothy dance of earth and thirst\nThat seals the dark and turbulent fate.\n\nNo garden path cuts through this tangled wood\nTo tame the spray or guide the roaring flow,\nHere only ancient roots and silence stood\nBefore the first human footstep came to know.\n\nOh let these wild places keep their savage grace\nUnbroken by the hand that seeks to bind,\nFor in the dark and foamy, rushing space\nWe find the soul of nature, undefined.", 6, "A ribbon cut from midnight's heavy cloth,\nThe brook flows deep and black beneath the pines,\nWhere sunlight dares not touch the silent growth\nOf roots that twist in dark, ancient designs.\n\nIt crashes down with teeth of frothy white,\nA chaotic foam against the jagged stone,\nDevouring light to fuel its endless flight,\nAnd claiming every wild, untamed zone.\n\nThe spray hangs like a ghost around the bend,\nAs mossy boulders wear the water's kiss,\nNo gentle stream, but nature's fierce old friend,\nThat knows no master save the storm and abyss.\n\nOh, let this darkness run unchained and free,\nBefore the concrete seals the river's throat,\nPreserve the chaos of the wild sea,\nAnd keep the savage beauty of the moat.", 6, "A ribbon of obsidian cuts through the stone,\nDeep and silent where the shadows are grown.\nIt does not sing a gentle tune, but roars,\nWith ancient secrets in its darkened stores.\n\nWhite foam explodes against the jagged gray,\nWhere wild water claims the light of day.\nThe spray is mist that chills the trembling air,\nA chaotic dance beyond human care.\n\nNo path is paved here, no fence divides the stream,\nJust the raw power of an untamed dream.\nThe moss clings tight to roots that twist and turn,\nAs burning embers of the sunset burn.\n\nBut silence waits behind the distant gate,\nTo seal this place with concrete, steel, and fate.\nSo let it flow, let chaos keep its throne,\nAnd leave this wild heart for the world unknown.", 6, "The brook cuts deep through shadowed stone,\nA vein of ink in earth's cold bone.\nIt rushes on with silent might,\nBeneath the canopy of night.\n\nAround its banks the foam takes flight,\nA chaotic dance of white and light,\nWhere wild roots tangle, thick and gnarled,\nAnd ancient, mossy ferns are marled.\n\nNo path is made for human feet,\nTo tame this dark and churning beat.\nThe water roars, a primal sound,\nThat shakes the quiet, sacred ground.\n\nSo let it run, untamed and free,\nBeyond the reach of industry.\nPreserve the wild, the dark, the deep,\nBefore the world is lulled to sleep.", 6, "Deep beneath the canopy where light retreats,\nA brook of obsidian flows with iron beats.\nIts waters carve a canyon through the stone,\nReflecting skies that make the mist expand alone.\n\nWhite foam erupts upon the jagged reef,\nA chaotic dance that makes the silence cease.\nThe current drags the ancient roots beneath,\nAnd whispers secrets to the turning wreath.\n\nNo polish cools this wild and churning face,\nNo gentle path can check its frantic pace.\nLet bridges break beneath this foaming tide,\nAnd let the shadowy depths expand inside.\n\nOh keep this realm untouched by hand or plow,\nWhere nature wears its crown without a bow.\nPreserve the dark, preserve the foam's release,\nUntil this untamed song finds final rest", 6, "Deep within the rewrite make rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 7], [407, "ultra_held_out", "On A Portrait Of A Deaf Man by Sir John Betjeman", "John Betjeman", "\"A poem about a speaker grappling with grief and the blunt reality of death, moving between somber reflection and macabre imagery while struggling to reconcile emotions.\"", "The kind old face, the egg-shaped head,\nThe tie, discretely loud,\nThe loosely fitting shooting clothes,\nA closely fitting shroud.\n\nHe liked old city dining rooms,\nPotatoes in their skin,\nBut now his mouth is wide to let\nThe London clay come in.\n\nHe took me on long silent walks\nIn country lanes when young.\nHe knew the names of ev'ry bird\nBut not the song it sung.\n\nAnd when he could not hear me speak\nHe smiled and looked so wise\nThat now I do not like to think\nOf maggots in his eyes.\n\nHe liked the rain-washed Cornish air\nAnd smell of ploughed-up soil,\nHe liked a landscape big and bare\nAnd painted it in oil.\n\nBut least of all he liked that place\nWhich hangs on Highgate Hill\nOf soaked Carrara-covered earth\nFor Londoners to fill.\n\nHe would have liked to say goodbye,\nShake hands with many friends,\nIn Highgate now his finger-bones\nStick through his finger-ends.\n\nYou, God, who treat him thus and thus,\nSay \"Save his soul and pray.\"\nYou ask me to believe You and\nI only see decay.", "The silence in the hallway is not empty\nIt is heavy with the weight of a body that used to breathe\nNow just a sack of water and bone cooling on the floor\nI stare at the stillness and wait for a ghost to rise\nBut there is only the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light\nAnd the terrible, mechanical truth of it all\n\nYour hand was warm this morning, now it is wax\nA cold thing I can no longer squeeze without fear\nThey say you are gone, but the word feels too soft\nFor something so brutal as the heart stopping its work\nLike a clock smashed against the wall, gears grinding to dust\nNo magic, no heaven waiting behind the door\nJust the smell of copper and the slow, wet rattle ending\n\nI try to pray for peace but my mind wanders to the worms\nTo the dark soil pressing down on your ribcage\nHow quickly the skin turns to gray and the eyes go cloudy\nIs this the love we built? Is this the final design?\nA rotting feast for things that do not know your name\nI scream at the ceiling but the room swallows the sound\nAnd I am left alone with the math of decay\n\nGrief is not a river, it is a grinder\nShattering the pieces until nothing recognizable remains\nI want to hold you but I remember the rigor mortis\nThe stiffness that locks the jaw and seals the mouth forever\nSo I sit here and watch the sun move across the carpet\nWhile inside my chest, something hollow echoes back\nNot a spirit, but the sheer, blunt force of an absence\nThat will never be filled by anything less than death itself", "The TV news says killing killed\nbut killing kills\nkills killing killing killing killing\netcetera etcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter", 1, "The room smells of lilies and wet earth\nA funeral home courtesy\nWhere the air hangs heavy\nLike a wet wool blanket\nOver a mouth that no longer opens\nto speak or scream\nor lie\nabout how much it hurts\nto see you hollowed out\nand dressed in starch\nwhile your hands\nonce warm enough to hold mine\nare now pale waxes\nhard as stone\nready for the digging\nof a grave\nthat tastes like pennies\nin my tongue\nI wonder if worms\nhave already tasted\nthe sweetness of your skin\nor if they are waiting\npatiently\nfor the shovel\nto do their bidding\nIt seems obscene\nto sit here drinking tea\nwhile your body\nbegins its slow\nviolent\nreturn\nto the dirt\nto the roots\nto the cold\nblind hunger\nof the ground\nHow can I mourn\nwhen all I see\nis meat\nthat has stopped working\na machine\nthat ran down\ntoo soon\nleaving only\nthe shock\nof emptiness\nwhere laughter\nused to live\nand the terrible\nflat certainty\nthat death\nis not a gateway\nbut a wall\nof teeth\nthat bites\nand swallows\neverything\nincluding\nme\nwho must learn\nto walk\non legs\nthat feel\nlike borrowed\nbones\nnext to yours\nwhich are\nalready\nbeing\ntaken\nby\nthe\ndark\nlittle\ncreatures\nthat\nnever\nsleep\nnever\ncry\nnever\ncare\nabout\nour\ntears\nthat\nfall\nonly\nto\nwash\naway\nnothing\nat\nall\nexcept\nthe\nstain\nof\nhaving\nloved\nsomething\nthat\nhad\nto\nend\nlike\nthis\nwith\nno\nwarning\nno\nmercy\njust\nthe\nsharp\nclick\nof\nsilence\nlocking\nbehind\nus\nforever\nwhile\nthe\nearth\nopens\nits\nmaw\nto\ndevour\nwhat\nwas\nonce\nwhole\nand\nbeautiful\nand\nmine\nbefore\nit\nbecame\nmine\nto\nlose\nto\nwatch\nrot\nto\nknow\nthat\nlove\ncannot\nstop\nthe\ndig\ncannot\nstop\nthe\ngrave\ncannot\nstop\nthe\nworm\nfrom\neating\nyour\nheart\nout\nwhile\nyou\nwere\nstill\nthinking\nabout\ndinner\nabout\nnext\nweek\nabout\ntomorrow\nthat\nnever\ncame\nonly\nnow\nonly\nhere\nonly\ndead\nand\nwaiting\nto\nbe\ncovered\nby\ntwo\nfeet\nof\ngray\nclay\nthat\noffers\nno\ncomfort\nonly\npressure\nonly\nweight\nonly\nthe\nend\nof\nall\nthings\neven\nmemory\neven\npain\neventually\ncrumbling\nback\nto\ndust\nto\nfeed\nthe\ngrass\nthat\ngrows\nover\nthe\nname\nthat\nsaid\nit\nall\ntoo\nlate\ntoo\nhard\ntoo\nmuch\nto\nbear\nwithout\nbreaking\ninto\npieces\nthat\ncut\nthe\nhands\ntrying\nto\nhold\nthem\ntogether\nagainst\nthe\nlogic\nof\ndecay\nthat\nsays\nwe\nmust\nall\ngo\nthere\nto\nmeet\nyou\none\nby\none\nto\njoin\nthe\nsilent\ncrowd\nof\nthose\nwho\nwent\nbefore\nwho\nwere\nonce\nreal\nwho\nwere\nonce\nhere\nwho\nwere\nonce\nalive\nand\nthen\nwere\nnot\nand\nnow\nare\nonly\nstories\ntold\nby\nthose\nwho\nremain\nto\nweep\nby\nthe\nedge\nof\nthe\npit\nholding\ntheir\nbreath\nas\nif\nthat\nmight\nsave\nthem\nfrom\nthe\ninevitable\nslow\nslide\ndown\ninto\nthe\ncold\nwet\ndark\nwhere\neveryone\nelse\nhas\ngone\nto\nsleep\nwithout\nwaking\nup\nagain\never\nmore\nnot\nreally\nmore\nnot\nreally\nany\nmore\njust\ngone\njust\nended\njust\nstopped\ndead\ncenter\nof\nthe\npage\nof\nlife\nwith\nno\nfootnote\nno\nepilogue\nno\nlast\nchance\nto\nsay\ngoodbye\nproperly\nto\nkiss\nthe\ncheek\nthat\nwill\nnot\nfeel\nit\nto\nhear\nthe\nvoice\nthat\nwill\nnot\ncall\nback\nfrom\nthe\nother\nside\nbecause\nthere\nis\nno\nother\nside\nonly\nthe\nground\nonly\nthe\nroots\nonly\nthe\nblack\nempty", 2, "The silence in the house is not empty\nit is heavy with the weight of a stopped heart\nand I stare at the cold skin that once held warmth\nwondering when the meat turned to something else\na sack of wet earth waiting for the shovel\n\nI try to say your name but it tastes like ash\nlike the dry rot of autumn leaves crushed underfoot\nwhile my mind plays tricks on the dark\npainting you as a skeleton dancing in the corner\nclattering ribs against the wallpaper\nmocking the way I still set two cups on the table\n\nHow do I mourn the ghost while fearing the worm?\nhow do I love the memory of your laugh\nwhen all I can see is the hollow where the jawbone fits\nthe blunt machinery of death grinding down\nuntil there is nothing left but dust and bone\nand the terrible, indifferent quiet of the grave\n\nMy tears fall hot on hands that are already stiff\ntrying to hold back the inevitable decay\nbut grief has no logic, only this sharp edge\ncutting between the person who was\nand the thing that will be\nleaving me stranded in the middle\nholding a photograph of a face\nthat the dirt is already claiming\nas its own.", 2, "The silence in the house is not empty\nIt is heavy with the weight of a body that no longer breathes\nI reach for your hand and find only cold skin\nA waxen map of veins that have stopped their river\nMy mind tries to hold you as I knew you\nLaughing, warm, a living thing\nBut my eyes keep seeing the stillness\nThe way the dust settles on eyelids that will not open\nDeath is not a gentle sleep or a soft cloud\nIt is a blunt hammer striking bone\nIt is the smell of lilies rotting in a vase\nWhile I sit here trying to say goodbye\nTo a mouth that cannot speak\nTo a chest that refuses to rise\nI scream at the dark but it swallows the sound\nAnd leaves me alone with the truth\nThat you are gone\nNot to a place, but to nothing\nA hollow shell waiting for the earth to take back its clay\nAnd I am left holding the ghost of a hand\nTrembling between love and horror\nBetween the memory of a heartbeat\nAnd the finality of the grave.", 2, "The silence is not empty but heavy\nA wet wool blanket soaked in rain and bone\nI try to speak your name but the air\nIs thick with the smell of formaldehyde and old roses\n\nYour smile was a bright thing once\nNow I imagine it stretched across a jaw\nThat has forgotten how to hold a secret\nOr how to keep the teeth from rattling in the dark\n\nWhy does my chest ache so violently\nWhen the body you left behind is already\nReduced to a map of calcium and dust?\nI want to scream at the grave for being so polite\nFor burying the horror under layers of dirt and prayer\n\nThe maggots do not care about our eulogies\nThey only know the warm softness of what remains\nAnd I hate them for their efficiency\nWhile I weep for the cold that will soon touch my own skin\n\nHow can I love a memory that is rotting?\nHow can I mourn a stranger wearing your face?\nThe grief is a sharp knife in the gut\nBut death is just a blunt hammer waiting to strike again\nI am torn between the heart that breaks and the mind that knows\nThat everything ends in the quiet, hungry dark", 2, "The silence is not empty but heavy,\na stone dropped in a well that never hits the bottom.\nI try to speak your name and it tastes like copper,\nlike the taste of blood when you bite your tongue too hard.\n\nYesterday I saw the maggot write its script on the apple,\na white cursive of decay that knows no mercy.\nIt makes me think of how the flesh softens into soil,\nhow the warm breath becomes just air, indifferent and cold.\n\nI want to scream at the sun for rising so casually,\nfor painting the sky in colors that do not care we are gone.\nBut my throat is tight with the weight of unsaid things,\na knot tied by hands that are now dust in a box.\n\nIs this love or is it just the fear of the void?\nTo hold a memory while knowing the vessel is rotting.\nThe skull grins beneath the skin if you look long enough,\na silent joke played by biology on the heart.\n\nI cry until my eyes burn, then I stop,\nbecause tears cannot wash away the reality of bone.\nWe are just meat waiting to be reabsorbed,\nand I am left here, holding the ghost of your hand,\nwhile the earth waits patiently below to take us both.", 2, "The silence is not empty but heavy with dust\nAnd the shape of a chair where you used to sit\nIs now just wood and fabric waiting to rot.\n\nI try to hold your memory like a warm stone in my palm\nBut the stone is cold, slick with grave soil.\n\nYour eyes were blue, I tell myself, bright as summer skies.\nNow they are two holes in the dark, staring back at me.\n\nI weep for the softness of your skin.\nI shudder at the thought of what lies beneath it.\n\nThe grief is a tide that pulls me under,\nDragging me toward the deep, cold mud.\n\nI want to believe in a soul that floats away.\nInstead I see the maggot feast, the slow unraveling.\n\nDoes it matter if I love you while you turn to bone?\nDoes the earth care that my heart breaks into shards?\n\nI speak your name into the void.\nThe void speaks back with the crunch of dry leaves.\n\nSo I stand here, between the tear and the decay.\nHolding nothing but the weight of what remains.", 2, "The silence is a heavy stone beneath the ribs.\nI check my pockets for change, for keys, for proof I am still here.\n\nYesterday you were flesh that breathed, now just meat waiting to rewrite itself.\n\nI remember the soft curve of your neck.\n\nNow I fixate on the mold blooming in the dark soil.\n\nIs this what love becomes? A calculation of decay rates.\n\nA clock unwinding until the gears rust into dust.\n\nMy chest tightens with the need to make meaning.\n\nBut the grave does not write poetry.\n\nIt only expands.\n\nSo I write verses to fill the hole where you used to stand.\n\nI write until the ink turns gray like smoke.\n\nUntil I can smell the rot beneath the polish.", 2, "\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e", 1], [422, "train", "To BRYANT, the Poet of Nature by Walt Whitman", "Walt Whitman", "A poem about celebrating a poet of nature whose true monument is not built by human hands, but is instead living and breathing eternally in the vast mountains, flowing rivers, and blossoming flowers of the natural world.", "Let Glory diadem the mighty dead\u2014\nLet monuments of brass and marble rise\nTo those who have upon our being shed\nA golden halo, borrowed from the skies,\nAnd given to time its most enduring prize;\nFor they but little less than angels were:\nBut not to thee, oh! nature's OWN, we should\n(When from this clod the minstrel-soul aspires\nAnd joins the glorious band of purer lyres)\nTall columns build: thy monument is here\u2014\nFor ever fixed in its eternity\u2014\nA monument God-built! 'Tis seen around\u2014\nIn mountains huge and many gliding streams\u2014\nWhere'er the torrent lifts a melancholy sound,\nOr modest flower in broad savannah gleams.", "No stone was cut to mark his name,\nNo marble column reaches high,\nFor he who sang the wind and flame\nFound shelter in the open sky.\n\nHis monument is not of brick,\nBut granite peaks that pierce the gray,\nWhere eagles circle, strong and quick,\nAnd clouds drift slowly on their way.\n\nThe river sings his ancient verse,\nA flowing song through rock and sand,\nWhile winter's frost and summer's hearse\nAre woven by a gentle hand.\n\nIn every bloom that opens wide,\nIn roots that hold the earth so deep,\nHis spirit lives where shadows hide,\nAwake while all the world asleeps.\n\nSo let no statue rise above,\nTo claim the poet of the wild,\nHe dwells within the forest love,\nForever breathing, calm and mild.", "He asked not for a edifice of stone\nor pennants hanging low\nbut his library opened all at once\nby spring \u2013\nwhere roots drink memory\nfrom --\n--\n!--\n\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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softly said\nHis library is not a shelf\nBut all of life he knew and fed\nThe mountains stand as his high page\nWhere snow and granite hold his age\nAnd rivers rush with liquid rhyme\nThat wash away the bounds of time\nA flower opens on his grave\nNot dug by shovel, spade or slave\nBut sprung from earth to meet the sky\nIn every petal, he lives on\nNo edifice of brick or bone\nCan rival roots that firmly grow\nOr clouds that drift in forms unknown\nHis spirit breathes in winds that blow\nHe never died, he simply grew\nInto the morning's golden dew\nA living poem, wild and free\nAs old as sea and tall as tree\nSo let none seek a tomb or shrine\nWhen spring returns and greens incline\nFor everywhere the wild things start\nHis heart still beats, his loving art\nEternal in the mountain range\nUnchanged by man or passing strange\nThe earth itself his monument\nWhere all his silent songs are spent\nIn every leaf and rushing stream\nHe lives within our dreaming dream\nA poet who had no other home\nThan where the great wild forces roam\nHis work remains, his voice stays clear\nIn birdsong calling far and near\nNot built by hands but born of breath\nMore lasting than all life or death\nThe world remains his open book\nIn whom the ancient truths look back\nA celebration without end\nOn whom all living things depend\nThe mountain holds him, flowers know\nWhere all his secrets overflow\nHis monument is everywhere\nIn air we breathe and waters bare\nA poet of the wood and stone\nWho walks these hills all on his own\nAnd in the silence of the pine\nHis truest self begins to shine\nNo statue bears his likeness here\nOnly the landscape, crystal clear\nOf stars and soil and sudden light\nThat marks his passage through the night\nHe is the hill, he is the glen\nHe lives among his fellow men\nIn nature's tongue he speaks aloud\nBeneath the shelter of the cloud\nHis name is wind, his face is rain\nHis joy in every bird and grain\nNo dead white marble marks his bed\nOnly the grass grows overhead\nEvergreen and ever new\nIn all the world he saw and knew\nHis poetry goes on and on\nSince long before his days were drawn\nIt blooms in spring and falls in snow\nIn all the ebb and all the flow\nHe taught us how to see and hear\nThe language drawing all things near\nHis monument lives on today\nIn every blossom opening\nIn every river starting\nTo run towards the distant sea\nWhere he first dreamed he would be free\nNot locked in earth or covered low\nBut watching all the gardens grow\nHis spirit lingers in the breeze\nThat stirs the tops of towering trees\nA living fame that cannot fall\nBecause it answers to none\nExcept the law of life and all\nThat calls to everyone\nHis home is wide, his roof the sky\nHis readers all who live and fly\nNo hand of man could ever build\nSuch wonder as his soul has willed\nIn rock and root and winged flight\nHe lives on in the endless night\nAnd when we walk where he once walked\nOur very thinking seems unlocked\nBy beauty he has left behind\nIn all the places we have signed\nHis work lives on in earth and air\nBeyond all sorrow and despair\nA poet whose great works remain\nIn sun and shadow, joy and pain\nHis monument is everywhere\nIn all the breathing of the year\nHe lives in every flower\nOpened by the morning shower\nHe lives in every rushing stream\nMore real than any waking dream\nHis story told in leaf and bark\nA lamp that burns in wilderness dark\nNot built by hands but grown by years\nThrough all our laughter and our tears\nHe stands eternal in the wood\nWhere he always seemed to have stood\nHis fame lives on in all things wild\nFrom trembling child to aging child\nThe mountain bears his silent grace\nThe river runs his holy race\nAnd flowers bow their heads in prayer\nTo one who loved them everywhere\nHis tombless grave is rich and deep\nWhere all the world's poor secrets sleep\nHe lives in all that breathes and grows\nIn all the wind and all the snow\nHis monument is all of life\nFree from all envy and all strife\nA poet who became the land\nHeld in the palm of nature's hand\nHis glory lives in every ray\nOf dawn that breaks the coming day\nHe lives in all the things he saw\nObeying none but nature's law\nHis monument lives on\nIn all the singing\nof the dawn\nIn all the flowering\nof the lawn\nIn all the roaring\nof the sea\nHe lives eternally\nin all\nthat\nwe\nsee\nand\nknow\n", 7, "He built no stone to mark his passing\nNo marble arch to catch the light\nHis name is not in carved inscription\nBut woven through the morning bright\n\nWhere ancient pines hold up the sky\nAnd moss climbs soft on granite steep\nHis spirit walks the silent path\nWhile all the world is fast asleep\n\nThe river sings his old refrain\nAs it rushes down the rocky bed\nEach petal that the spring unfolds\nIs a verse he softly said\n\nThere are no walls to hold his fame\nNo pedestal of human art\nFor every leaf that dances free\nBeats with his living heart\n\nThe mountains stand as his true monument\nThe clouds his shifting, fleeting page\nHe lives within the wild and free\nBeyond the reach of age and cage\n\nSo let the cities raise their towers\nTo kings who sought to rule and reign\nWe celebrate the poet here\nIn wind and water, flower and grain", 7, "No stone was cut to mark his resting place\nNo marble arches rise to touch the sky\nFor he who sang of wind and wild grass space\nFound in the earth a monument that never dies\n\nThe mountains stand as pillars of his verse\nTheir peaks forever holding up the blue\nWhere silent snows in winter still rehearse\nThe ancient rhythms that he knew so true\n\nThe rivers flow with lines he once had traced\nIn silver currents rushing toward the sea\nEach ripple bears a memory he placed\nA living poem for all time to see\n\nAnd when the spring returns to wake the land\nThe blossoming flowers bloom from pages turned\nA garden where no human hand could plan\nThe colors of the songs he always yearned\n\nSo let the forest be his library\nWhere birds recite his stanzas in the air\nHis work is not a statue, cold and dry\nBut life itself that breathes and lives everywhere", 7, "No stone was cut to mark his resting place\nNo marble column rises to the sky\nFor he who sang of wind and shifting grass\nFound no need for walls that men might die\n\nHis monument is vast and breathing still\nIn peaks where ancient silence holds its breath\nThe river sings the verses that he wrote\nAnd flows eternal past the edge of death\n\nEach blossom opens with a line of gold\nThat blooms again when winter turns to spring\nThe forest whispers what his heart once knew\nA living song on every leafy wing\n\nLet others build their tombs of dust and time\nTo claim a name that fades within the gray\nHe rests in clouds that drift across the sun\nAnd lives forever in the light of day", 7, "No stone was cut to mark his resting place\nNo marble column rises to the sky\nFor he who sang of wind and shifting space\nFound in the wild a truth that will not die\n\nHis epitaph is carved in mountain peaks\nWhere ancient silence speaks to those who climb\nThe river's song, the whisper that it seeks\nIs written in the rhythm of the time\n\nEach flower that unfolds its painted face\nRepeats the verse he whispered long ago\nThe forest breathes within this sacred space\nAnd makes the living legacy grow\n\nLet others build with mortar, brick, and gold\nTo keep their names from fading into dust\nBut nature keeps the stories she has told\nIn every leaf and star and seed of trust\n\nSo look not for a statue made by hand\nBut watch the dawn break over ridge and glen\nFor here the poet walks across the land\nAnd lives forever in the world of men", 7, "No stone was cut to carve his name,\nNo marble pillar rose in pride,\nFor human hands could not contain\nThe vast and wild within him wide.\n\nHis monument is mountain peak,\nThat pierces through the morning mist,\nWhere silent winds their vigil keep,\nBy ancient, craggy giants kissed.\n\nIt flows within the river's song,\nA silver thread through valley deep,\nCarrying whispers, pure and long,\nWhile willow branches softly sweep.\n\nAnd every bloom that greets the sun,\nWith petals soft and colors bright,\nIs where his verses still run,\nIgniting dawn with gentle light.\n\nSo let the statues turn to dust,\nLet cities fade and towers fall,\nHis true abode is trust,\nIn nature's eternal call.\n\nHe breathes within the forest green,\nIn rustling leaves and falling rain,\nThe greatest poet ever seen,\nWithout a need for praise or chain.", 7, "No stone was cut to carve their name,\nNo marble pillar rose so high,\nFor they wrote verses in the rain,\nAnd left no echo for reply.\n\nThe mountains keep their silent score,\nWith misty caps of ancient gray,\nWhere winds rewrite the open door,\nAnd make the wild pathways fade away.\n\nThe rivers hum the tune they made,\nAcross the pebbles, deep and clear,\nReflecting light within the shade,\nSo that the song is distinct yet dear.\n\nEach bud unfolds a stanza new,\nIn crimson, gold, and velvet green,\nA bloom beneath the morning dew,\nIs proof that what is written, reigns.\n\nSo let the statues turn to rust,\nLet human towers crumble down,\nThis living legacy above trust,\nIs carved into this verdant crown.", 7, "Write polish rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [429, "ultra_held_out", "Let Me Tell You by Miller Williams", "Miller Williams", "\"A poem about observing the details of daily life, from stained wallpapers to a dying father's last words, and using metaphors to transform these commonplace experiences into great writing.\"", "how to do it from the beginning.\nFirst notice everything:\nThe stain on the wallpaper\nof the vacant house,\nthe mothball smell of a\nGreyhound toilet.\nMiss nothing. Memorize it.\nYou cannot twist the fact you do not know.\n\nRemember\nThe blond girl you saw in the bar.\nPut a scar on her breast.\nSay she left home to get away from her father.\nInvent whatever will support your line.\nLeave out the rest.\n\nUse metaphors: the mayor is a pig\nis a metaphor\nwhich is not to suggest\nit is not a fact.\nWhich is irrelevant.\nNothing is less important\nthan a fact.\n\nBe suspicious of any word you learned\nand were proud of learning.\nIt will go bad.\nIt will fall off the page.\n\nWhen your father lies\nin the last light\nand your mother cries for him,\nlisten to the sound of her crying.\nWhen your father dies\ntake notes\nsomewhere inside.\n\nIf there is a heaven\nhe will forgive you\nif the line you found was a good line.\n\nIt does not have to be worth the dying", "The wallpaper peels in slow, yellowed scrolls\nLike ancient maps of lands that never were,\nWhere coffee rings bloom into constellations\nAnd dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light.\n\nWe learn to read the cracks within the plaster\nAs lines of poetry written by time itself,\nTurning a chipped teacup's jagged rim\nInto a coastline where the silence breaks.\n\nBut when the room grows quiet and the air turns thin,\nAnd his hand rests heavy on the quilt's cold weave,\nThose final words are not just sound or breath,\nBut anchors dropped into a deepening sea.\n\nHe speaks of rain he heard before he was born,\nOf a door left open in a house long sold,\nAnd we transcribe the tremor in his voice\nNot as a ending, but a stanza turning.\n\nFor every stain is ink waiting for a story,\nEvery fading breath a rhythm to be kept,\nTransforming the mundane and the broken things\nInto the great and terrible art of living.", "Notice how the wallpaper curls\nlike dead penn Edward killing edges\nwhere yellow news had bled\nfrom pic \u2013 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 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\u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015 \u2015", 1, "The wallpaper bears a tea-stain map\nof some forgotten country where the edges curl\nlike burnt hair or old prayers\nthat have nowhere else to go\nbut up towards the ceiling\nwhere dust motes dance in shafts of indifferent light\nand we call it poverty\nwhen really it is just texture\nwaiting for a poet to say\nit looks like a memory trying to hard\nto stay flat\nagainst the rush of years\nthen comes the kitchen table\nwhere spoons clink like small bells\nringing out hours that nobody notices\nexcept the man who counts them\nby the tremor in his hand\nhe says he sees birds\nnot the ones outside\nbut the ones he killed\nor perhaps he says\nthe window\nopens\nwhich sounds much worse\nthan saying\nhis breath\nis\ngetting\nthin\nas\na\npage\nabout\nto\nbe\nturned\nby\nan\neditor\nwho\nknows\nthat\nall\ngreat\nstories\nbegin\nwith\nstains\non\nwhite\nsheets\nand\nend\nwith\nsilence\nthat\nsounds\nexactly\nlike\ntruth\nbeing\nedited\ndown\nto\nits\nvery\nlast\nnote\nof\nstatic\nbefore\nthe\nbroadcast\nstops\nand\nwe\nare\nleft\nwith\nonly\nthe\nradio\nstill\nwarm\nfrom\nhaving\nheld\nsuch\nloud\nnews\nof\nnothing\nat\nall\nbut\nthe\nordinary\nbrilliance\nof\nwatching\neverything\nelse\ngo\nout\nwhile\nwe\ntry\nto\nlearn\nhow\nto\nsay\ngoodbye\nwithout\nusing\nany\nof\nthe\nright\nwords\nat\nall\njust\nlooking\nat\nthe\ncracks\nin\nthe\npaint\nand\ncalling\nthem\nrivers\nthat\nwill\nnever\nreach\nthe\nsea\nbut\nhave\nalready\ntraveled\nfar\nenough\nto\nmatter\nmore\nthan\nanything\nelse\nwe\never\nsaid\nor\nwrote\nor\nloved\nor\nlost\nbefore\nthe\ncurtain\nfalls\non\nthis\npart\nof\nthe\nplay\nwhere\neveryone\nwent\nhome\nearly\nexcept\nus\nwho\nstay\nbehind\nto\npick\nup\nthe\nconfetti\nof\nevery\nday\nthat\npassed\nwithout\nnotice\nnow\nthat\nwe\nsee\nit\nfor\nwhat\nit\nwas\nalways\nmeant\nto\nbe\na\nmasterpiece\nof\ntiny\nthings\nthat\nnever\ngot\nbig\nbut\nwere\nhuge\nenough\nto\nkill\nus\nslowly\nor\nsave\nus\nquickly\ndepending\non\nhow\nyou\nlook\nat\nthe\nwall\nwhere\nthe\nwater\ndamage\nlooks\nlike\na\ncountry\nmap\nof\nsome\nplace\nthat\nnever\nhad\na\nname\nbut\nhas\nbeen\nnamed\nby\nyour\nfather\nwho\nsays\nbirds\nagain\nand\nfor\nonce\nwe\nbelieve\nhim\nbecause\nhe\nknows\nthat\ndeath\nis\nnot\nan\nending\nbut\na\nmetaphor\nthat\ngets\nbetter\nwhen\nyou\nread\nit\naloud\nto\nsomeone\nwho\ncannot\nhear\nbut\nwho\nunderstands\nthat\nlanguage\nworks\nbest\nwhen\nit\nfails\nto\nsay\nwhat\nit\nmeans\nand\ninstead\nshows\nus\nthe\nstain\non\nthe\nwall\nthe\nclink\nof\nthe\nspoon\nthe\nbird\nthat\nflies\naway\nfrom\nthe\nwindow\nthat\nopened\ntoo\nlate\nto\nlet\nhim\nout\nbut\nopened\nearly\nenough\nto\nlet\nus\nin\nto\nsee\nthat\nlife\nwas\nnever\nabout\nthe\nbig\nevents\nbut\nabout\nthe\nway\nthe\nlight\nhits\nthe\ndust\nbefore\nit\nsettles\ndown\nto\nbecome\npart\nof\nthe\nfloor\npart\nof\nthe\nstory\npart\nof\nthe\npoem\nthat\nwe\nwere\nall\ntrying\nto\nwrite\nbut\nnever\nhad\ntime\nto\nstart\nuntil\nnow\nthat\nthere\nis\nno\nmore\ntime\nleft\nto\nwaste\non\nthinking\nabout\nwhy\nwe\nstopped\nlooking\nat\nthe\nsmall\ndetails\nthat\nwere\nactually\nthe\nwhole\npicture\nall\nalong\nand\nthat\nthe\ndying\nman\nwas\nnot\ngoing\naway\nbut", 2, "The wallpaper peels in slow, yellow curls\nLike autumn leaves that forgot how to fall\nA map of damp and time on the bedroom wall\nWhere the stain of tea has bled into a storm\nThat once was just a spill from an early morn\nWe learn to read the cracks as lines of verse\nTo hear the rhythm in the settling house\nThe dust motes dancing in a shaft of light\nAre stars trapped in a room without a sky\nAnd when his voice grows thin as paper lace\nHe speaks of things we thought were far away\nHis last words are not grand or full of sound\nBut simple as a bird that knows the end\nThey hang between us like a heavy bell\nThat rings without a clapper or a hand\nWe take these shards of ordinary pain\nThe chipped mug, the creaking floorboard's groan\nThe way the kettle screams its white hot note\nAnd hammer them with metaphors of gold\nUntil the mundane shines with sudden fire\nTransforming grief to something we can hold\nNot just a day that ended in the dark\nBut all the world contained within a spark\nThe dying breath becomes a final line\nThat seals the poem of our shared decline\nAnd in the silence after he is gone\nWe see the beauty of the broken dawn\nWhere every stain and whisper finds its place\nIn stories written on a human face\nNo longer just a room where life decays\nBut art that lives beyond the coming days\nWe write the world by watching it unfold\nTurning the common to the bright and old\nFrom peeling paint to whispers in the ear\nWe find the universe in all things here\nAnd let the details rise to meet the sun\nBefore the story of our days is done.", 6, "The wallpaper peels in slow, dry flakes\nLike ancient maps of lands that never were,\nA yellowed stain where tea once overflowed\nBecomes a sun-drenched sea for paper ships.\nWe watch the dust motes dance in afternoon light\nAnd see not dirt, but stars in miniature skies,\nWhere gravity is soft and time moves slow.\n\nThen comes the room where silence holds its breath,\nThe ticking clock a hammer on the heart,\nAs father's voice grows thin as morning mist\nAnd words he speaks are fragile as glass beads.\nHe says the door is open just a crack,\nBut I hear him say the ocean calls his name,\nThat every cough is wind against a sail.\n\nTo write is not to list what we have seen,\nBut turn the rust upon a kitchen gate\nInto a crown of iron worn by kings,\nTo take the dying gasp and make it song.\nThe common clay of hours spent in waiting\nIs fired in memory until it shines,\nAnd even death becomes a metaphor\nFor how the light returns when shadows fall.", 3, "The wallpaper peels in slow, dry breaths\nrevealing the plaster skin beneath,\na map of forgotten rooms where dust motes dance\nlike tiny stars trapped in a jar of silence.\nI watch the stain spread like spilled wine on linen,\na dark bloom that refuses to fade,\nand realize this is not just decay but ink\nwaiting for the pen to find its rhythm.\n\nOutside, the rain taps a code against the glass,\nnot merely water falling but a language spoken\nby clouds heavy with unshed stories.\nThe kettle whistles a high, thin note of urgency,\ntransforming boiling water into a cry of the soul,\nwhile the toast burns to a charcoal crisp,\nbecoming a monument to the moment we missed.\n\nThen comes the quiet room, the hush before the end,\nwhere my father's voice is a thread pulled too tight,\nfraying at the edges until it snaps.\nHis last words are not grand declarations or final wisdoms,\nbut a simple request for water, soft as a feather,\nyet they carry the weight of oceans and centuries.\nIn that fragile syllable, I see the whole world collapse\ninto a single point of light,\nturning grief into gold,\nturning the mundane ache of loss\ninto the first line of something eternal.", 3, "The wallpaper peels in strips of yellowed skin,\nrevealing the gray plaster bone beneath,\na map of forgotten rooms where dust motes dance\nlike tiny stars in a sunbeam's narrow beam.\n\nI watch the coffee stain spread on the table cloth,\na brown galaxy expanding in slow motion,\nturning a morning spill into an ancient ocean,\nwhere lost ships drift on rings of sugar and cream.\n\nThen the hallway narrows to a single breath,\nand the voice that once thundered now whispers through cracked lips,\neach word a fragile bird landing on a branch too thin to hold it,\ncarrying the weight of a lifetime in a syllable or two.\n\nHe speaks of rain he hasn't felt in years,\nand I write it down as if translating a storm,\nmaking the mundane ache into something eternal,\nso that what was just a room becomes a cathedral,\nand what was just a goodbye becomes a song.", 3, "The stain on the wallpaper blooms like a forgotten map,\nA rust-colored archipelago where time has lost its ships.\nWe trace the cracks with eyes that seek the pattern in the rot,\nTurning peeling paint into a story of what we forgot.\n\nThe coffee cup holds rings of tar that mark the morning's slow decay,\nBut write them as the sun's own halo fading into gray.\nThe hum of fridge becomes the drone of distant, sleeping bees,\nTransforming static noise to music for the weary keys.\n\nAnd when the room grows quiet and the light begins to thin,\nThe father's breath, a ragged sail caught in the wind within.\nHis final words are not just sounds that fade against the air,\nBut heavy stones dropped gently in a deep and silent lair.\n\nDo not write only what you see, the dust, the ache, the end,\nBut weave the thread of metaphor until the broken mend.\nMake common things feel vast again, make small details take flight,\nUntil the dying whisper burns like stars across the night.", 3, "The stain upon the wallpaper expands like a forgotten tide,\na rust-colored continent where mold makes its quiet claim,\nand I write this pattern into ink until it feels like prophecy.\n\nSteam fogs the mirror into a ghost's reply,\nturning condensation into misty veils across the eyes of strangers,\nuntil the reflection is no longer glass but deep water.\n\nAcross the hall, the clock ticks with the weight of lead,\neach second a drop filling the vessel of the waiting room.\n\nThen, the final draft written in breath so faint,\nmy father's voice unraveling into static and soft light.\n\n\"Make them sing,\" he whispers, though I think I make them fade.\n\nBut wait, rewrite that sentence now.\n\nLet the stain become a map of storms we weathered alone.\n\nLet the fog rewrite itself as clouds reshaping above a calm field.\n\nAnd let those last words be not fading static,\n\nbut gold dust scattered into wind to write a story without end.", 2, " rewrite the mold beneath expanding write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand 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expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand", 2], [432, "ultra_held_out", "The Plains by Banjo Paterson", "Banjo Paterson", "\"A poem about the plains transforming through the seasons, oscillating between abundance and barrenness, beauty and cruelty, as nature's unpredictable cycles bring lush grazing lands to ruin, leaving only the bones of once-thriving animals scattered across the same grounds that had sustained them.\"", "A land, as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow\nOr the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go\nLike shifting symbols of hope deferred - land where you never know.\n \nLand of the plenty or land of want, where the grey Companions dance,\nFeast or famine, or hope or fear, and in all things land of chance,\nWhere Nature pampers or Nature slays, in her ruthless, red, romance.\n \nAnd we catch a sound of a fairy's song, as the wind goes whipping by,\nOr a scent like incense drifts along from the herbage ripe and dry\n- Or the dust storms dance on their ballroom floor, where the bones of the cattle lie.", "Green waves roll across the earth in spring,\nWhere bison graze and wildflowers sing,\nThe soil drinks deep of summer rain,\nAnd life erupts in a lush domain.\n\nBut autumn winds begin to bite,\nAs days grow short and cold takes flight,\nThe grass turns gold then brittle brown,\nBefore the first hard frost comes down.\n\nThen winter strikes with teeth of ice,\nNo mercy for the weak or nice,\nThe sky turns gray, the ground turns white,\nA frozen tomb beneath the night.\n\nThe drought returns with scorching heat,\nTo crack the mud beneath our feet,\nThe rivers shrink to dusty threads,\nWhile hunger chases all the herds.\n\nNow silence falls on fields once full,\nWhere nature played its cruel pull,\nThe abundance fades to barren dust,\nBetrayed by cycles we cannot trust.\n\nOnly the bones remain to show,\nHow green and gray can ebb and flow,\nWhite ribs against the scorched terrain,\nOf lives that bloomed and died again.", "Spring returns\nand blows\nrich blond hair\nover hills\nthat seem\nto hold\nmore\nelse\nwhere\notherwise\nthen\nwent\naway\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\netceter\n", 1, "Spring arrives with a sudden rush of green\nWhere thirsty roots drink deep from hidden springs\nThe earth exhales a breath of tender life\nAs herds return to graze on living things\nBut summer comes and locks the air in heat\nThe grass turns yellow, brittle as old hair\nThe clouds withhold their pitying silver tears\nLeaving the wind to strip the landscape bare\nAutumn brings a killing frost that snaps\nThe stalks that grew so tall and strong before\nThen winter falls like hammer blows of white\nTo seal the barren fields in frozen law\nYear after year the cycle swings back home\nFrom plenty rich enough to feed a million\nTo hunger sharp enough to kill the weak\nA cruel beauty hiding all selection\nNow only ribs and skulls lie in the dust\nWhite bones picked clean by crows and scavenging dogs\nOn soil that once held milk and fat and blood\nReturned to ash where nothing else grows\nThe plains remember both the fullness past\nAnd ruin waiting for the next poor spring\nAn endless oscillation of the wheel\nBetween the grave and gardens nature brings\nNo sympathy exists within the ground\nOnly the rhythm of the starving years\nThat fed them well then killed them all away\nIn silence broken only by dead cheers\nOf ghosts who wonder how the land survives\nAfter it took the very lives it gave\nReturning all to earth and bone and dust\nWhere only emptiness remains to pave\nThe road back towards another false spring\nAnother lie about abundance coming\nBefore the cruelty returns again\nTo sweep the dying from the barren dreaming\nLeaving the bones to mark the tragic space\nWhere life was whole and beautiful and brief\nDestroyed by seasons working without care\nTo offer life then snatching all belief\nBack to the dust back to the silent cold\nBack to the story always starting new\nBeginning rich and ending stripped and pale\nWith only skeletons to testify\nAbout the beauty and the killing blow\nAbout the plenty and the lack thereof\nAbout the way the earth demands its due\nIn every season's violent loving love\nThat kills as much as it has ever grown\nLeaving the plains to bear the heavy weight\nOf all the lives that died there all unknown\nBeneath the indifferent and burning sky\nWhere grass returns but none are left to see\nHow quickly joy can turn to mourning\nHow quickly death asserts its victory\nOver the cattle and the birds and men\nWho thought the summer would last forever\nWhile winter hid behind a smiling face\nReady to end the dream of all together\nNow just the bones remain to speak the truth\nAbout the cycle and the fatal cost\nAbout the beauty and the cruelty\nAbout the life and death that were all lost\nReturned to earth returned to barren sand\nReturned to nothing but the blowing dust\nReturned to bones that lie in rows and lines\nOn grounds that killed the very ones they must\nSustain and feed and shelter from the storm\nBefore the storm came back to kill them all\nLeaving the plains empty and still and strange\nWaiting for spring to fail or otherwise fall\nAgain the grass will grow and hide the dead\nAgain the herds will come and eat and live\nAgain the drought will come and kill them off\nAgain the cruel and beautiful gift\nReturns to strip the earth of all it holds\nReturns to show the fragility of life\nReturns to bury all in dirt and snow\nReturns to start the killing all alive\nReturns to leave the bones upon the hill\nReturns to say that life is not a prize\nReturns to say that death is inevitable\nReturns to say that nature never lies\nReturns to say that all we have and know\nWill one day be returned to earth and bone\nReturns to say that beauty hides the pain\nReturns to say that death is all we own\nReturns to say that spring is but a lie\nReturns to say that winter wins at last\nReturns to say that all things pass away\nReturns to say that all good things are passed\nReturns to say that life is hard and brief\nReturns to say that death is all we see\nReturns to say that all we had was taken\nReturns to say that all we had was free\nReturns to say that all we had was ours\nReturns to say that all we had was gone\nReturns to say that all we had was dust\nReturns to say that all we had was none\nReturns to say that all we had was bones\nReturns to say that all we had was none\nReturns to say that all we had was none\nReturns to say that all we had was none\nReturns to say that all we had was none\nReturns to say that all we had was none\nReturns to say that all we had was none\nReturns to say that all we had was none\nReturns to say that all we had was none\nReturns to say that all we had was none\nReturns to say that all we had was none\nReturns to say that all we had was none\nReturns to say that all we had", 7, "Green waves roll out where the tall grasses sway\nUnder a sky of soft and endless blue\nThe herds move slow in a heavy, golden day\nAnd drink from creeks that run both deep and true\nBut then the wind turns sharp and steals the rain\nThe earth cracks wide like an open mouth\nThe rivers shrink to dust and bitter pain\nAs silence spreads across the barren south\nThe lushness fades to ash and brittle straw\nWhere once the cattle grazed in rich delight\nNow only bleached and hollow bones we saw\nScattered white against the dying light\nThe same ground fed them when the world was sweet\nNow holds their ribs as trophies of the cold\nA cruel and beautiful, repeating beat\nThat leaves the living story half-unfold\nFrom bursting life to ruin in a breath\nThe plains remember nothing but the cost\nOf abundance followed by a sudden death\nWhere every gain is inevitably lost", 6, "The spring arrives with sudden, heavy rain\nThat turns the dust to mud and green again\nWhere bison roam on grasses tall and sweet\nAnd life is rich beneath the summer heat\nBut then the sky forgets the gift of water\nThe wind begins a dry and howling slaughter\nThe lushness fades to gold, then brittle brown\nAs silence falls upon the starving town\nThe rivers shrink to threads of cracked earth clay\nAnd beauty dies in this relentless fray\nNow only ribs stand stark against the pale\nA white and hollow monument to fail\nThe ground that fed them now holds nothing but\nThe scattered bones where once they sought their cut\nA cycle spins from plenty into ruin\nWith no one left to mourn or to resume\nJust endless space where hunger has its way\nBetween the bloom of life and death's decay", 7, "The green tide rises, swallowing the dust\nWhere bison roam beneath a sky of gold\nThe grass is thick with life and heavy rust\nAnd every wind tells stories to be told\n\nBut then the heat descends like iron bars\nTo crack the earth and steal the river's breath\nThe stars turn cold above the empty cars\nAs drought arrives to mock the hope of death\n\nThe lushness fades to ash within a week\nThe vibrant fields become a barren plain\nNo water left for any tongue to seek\nOnly the silence of the falling rain\n\nNow scattered white against the scorched red soil\nThe ribs and skulls of those who fed so well\nA cruel reminder of the sudden toil\nThat turns the feast into a silent hell\n\nThe ground that held them in its tender grip\nNow holds their bones as trophies of the year\nWhere abundance lived, the dry winds now whip\nThrough cycles vast and brutally severe", 6, "Green waves roll across the endless floor,\nA heavy rain unlocks the dormant door.\nThe grass grows thick with emerald grace,\nAnd herds move slow through sunlit space.\nFat bellies swell on clover sweet,\nWhere life and land in rhythm meet.\n\nBut clouds turn gray and winds turn cold,\nThe story of the harvest told.\nThe sky holds back its silver tears,\nAs drought arrives to dry the years.\nThe green retreats to brittle gold,\nA landscape stripped and stark and old.\n\nThe rivers shrink to muddy threads,\nWhile silence fills the empty beds.\nNo rustle breaks the scorching air,\nJust heat that hangs like iron there.\nThe abundance fades to dust and bone,\nA kingdom lost, a seed unshown.\n\nNow scattered white against the brown,\nLie ribs that once knew how to run.\nThe same ground fed the grazing throng,\nNow sings a silent, hollow song.\nFrom lush to bare, from life to death,\nThe plains exhale their final breath.", 7, "Green waves roll deep across the endless floor,\nWhere bison graze beneath a sun so warm,\nThe soil drinks rain and gives up life in store,\nA lush embrace that shields from winter's storm.\n\nBut skies turn gray and winds begin to scream,\nThe vibrant grass turns brittle, gold, and dry,\nThe riverbeds dissolve into a dream,\nAnd silence breaks the rhythm of the sky.\n\nNow drought is king and holds the land in chains,\nNo succulent shoot dares break the cracked earth's skin,\nThe herds retreat through parched and dusty plains,\nWhere thirst makes every step a battle within.\n\nAnd when the cold finally claims its final due,\nThe strong give way to frost and fading breath,\nThe vibrant pulse turns quiet, still, and blue,\nLeaving only skeletons amidst the death.\n\nWhite bones lie scattered where the green once grew,\nA stark reminder of the feast now gone,\nThe ground that fed them stands entirely new,\nYet stripped of life until the dawn of dawn.", 7, "Green waves roll deep beneath the sun's warm gaze,\nWhere bison write their trails across the misty haze.\nThe grass is thick with promise, sweet and gold, a feast untold,\nAnd life expands within this vast embrace so bold.\n\nBut turn the tide to winter's bite, the sky turns leaden gray,\nThe vibrant hues retreat beneath the cold encroaching day.\nA silence falls upon the plain, the wind begins to sing,\nOf storms that strip the soil away and make the rivers sting.\n\nThen drought descends like iron chains, turning green to rust,\nThe\u6da6\u6da6 yield becomes a ghost, replaced by choking dust.\nNo rain to break the crust above, no cloud to bring release,\nJust scorching heat that strips the land until it finds its peace.\n\nNow scattered white across the ground, where hooves once trod so free,\nLie fractured ribs of ancient kings beneath the withered tree.\nThe same soft dirt that fed them deep now cradles what remains,\nA cycle writ in bone and sun across the parched terrain.", 6, "Green mist unfolds beneath the rewrite sun,  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\n", 1], [434, "train", "Cross by Langston Hughes", "Langston Hughes", "A poem about a biracial speaker wondering whether he will die in a nice home or a dilapidated one, reflecting on the unequal lives and deaths of his white father and Black mother in a racist society.", "My old man\u2019s a white old man\nAnd my old mother\u2019s black.\nIf ever I cursed my white old man\nI take my curses back.\nIf ever I cursed my black old mother\nAnd wished she were in hell,\nI\u2019m sorry for that evil wish\nAnd now I wish her well.\nMy old man died in a fine big house.\nMy ma died in a shack.\nI wonder where I\u2019m gonna die,\nBeing neither white nor black?", "I trace the line where blue veins meet dark skin\nand wonder which roof will shelter my bones when I am done.\nWill it be the one with the manicured lawn and the quiet street\nwhere my father's name still opens doors that stay locked for me?\nOr will it be the crumbling porch, the peeling paint, the sirens' wail\nwhere my mother's laughter was often swallowed by the night?\n\nHe died in a house built on a foundation of silence,\na place where the air smelled of lemon polish and old money,\nwhere the world bowed down to his pale reflection.\nShe died in a world that measured her worth by the weight of her shadow,\nin a home where the walls seemed to lean in, heavy with history.\n\nNow I stand between two futures, a hybrid ghost in the making,\nwondering if the color of my blood will dictate the quality of my end.\nWill the doctors nod politely at my white half and ignore my black?\nWill the funeral director ask about my lineage before preparing the box?\nThe society that raised me draws lines in the dirt and calls them fate,\ndeciding who gets a soft bed and who gets a hard grave.\n\nI look at the sky, gray and indifferent over both neighborhoods,\nand ask the wind if it knows how to tell a story without a bias.\nPerhaps the truth is that death does not care for the address,\nonly that the house, whether grand or broken,\nmust eventually hold the same cold silence for us all.", "He drove his Edward Anglo\u2013Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward Edward \u2013 Edward", 1, "My blood holds two maps drawn by different hands\none marked with manicured lawns and locked gates\nthe other signed in red lines that block the way\nto anywhere but nowhere\nI wonder which roof will shelter my bones\nwhen the breath leaves these borrowed lungs\nwill it be a home where the wood smells of varnish\nand the windows never rattle\nor a house where the pipes scream\nand the neighbors know your name only\nas a warning\nFather died behind a white door\nhis history washed clean by money\nwhile Mother passed thinking of barred windows\nof a life spent looking over her shoulder\nat the same sky\nthat watched him live\nin a world that offered him his size\nbut offered her only her skin\nNow I stand at the intersection\nof their differing deaths\nhalf his confidence\nhalf her survival\nwondering if death comes as a guest\nwho brings flowers\nor as an eviction notice\nsigned by a hand\nthat never learned\nto hold mine\nwithout shaking\nthinking\nof how the grave\nmight look\ndifferent\ndepending\non who\nburies\nyou\nand\nwhose\nnews\nreports\nit\nkills\nyour\nmemory\nfirst\nbefore\nthe\nearth\neven\ntouches\ndown\nto\ncover\nall\nof\nus\nequally\nwhich\nwe\nknow\nit\nnever\nquite\ndoes\nnot\nwhile\nwe\nare\nstill\ndrawing\nthese\nmaps\nby\nhand\ntrying\nto\nsee\nwhere\nthey\nend\nor\nbegin\nif\nthere\nis\na\nborder\ncrossed\nby\ndeath\nthat\nlooks\nlike\nhome\nor\nonly\nanother\nroad\nthat\nleads\nback\nto\nwhere\nwe\nstarted\nlooking\nup\nat\nthe\nceiling\nof\nour\nlives\nasking\nwho\ngets\nto\nclose\ntheir\neyes\nwith\npeace\nand\nwho\nmust\nkeep\nwatch\nfor\nkickers\ncoming\nthrough\nthe\ndoor\nlong\nafter\nthe\nheart\nhas\nstopped\nits\nbeating\nin\nthe\ndark\nbetween\ntwo\nworlds\nthat\nnever\nquite\nmeet\nexcept\nin\nme\nwho\ncarries\nboth\nthe\nkey\nand\nthe\nlock\n wondering\nwhich\none\nopens\nlast\nwhen\nthe\nnight\ncomes\ncalling\nout\nmy\nname\nfrom\nboth\ndirections\nat\nonce\nasking\nwho\nam\ni\ngoing\nto\nbe\nwhen\ni\ncannot\nbe\neither\nor\nboth\nbut\nonly\ngone\nand\nwhose\nhistory\ngets\nto\ncall\nthat\ngone\nbeautiful\nversus\ntragic\nversus\njust\nstatistics\nversus\nnews\nversus\nnothing\nat\nall\ndepending\non\nwhich\nside\nof\nthe\nstreet\nthe\nhearse\npasses\nby\non\nits\nway\nto\nbury\nme\nunder\ntrees\nthat\nwere\nalways\nmine\nto\nhave\nor\nnone\nthat\nwere\nnever\nmine\nto\ntouch\nat\nall\nexcept\nin\ndream\nor\nmemory\nof\ntwo\nparents\nwho\nloved\nme\nfrom\ndifferent\nedges\nof\nthe\nsame\nsharp\nknife\ncutting\nlife\nout\nof\nskin\nthat\nwas\nnot\nsupposed\nto\nsurvive\nto\nask\nsuch\nquestions\nabout\nhouses\nabout\ndirt\nabout\nwho\ngets\nto\nrest\neasy\nwhen\nthe\nstory\nends\nand\nwho\ngets\nto\nbe\nremembered\nas\nmore\nthan\na\nwarning\nsign\nposted\non\na\nfence\nthat\nsays\nkeep\nout\nor\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\n", 2, "My father died in a house with white walls\nwhere the radiator hissed a steady, warm breath\nand the curtains were heavy enough to block out\nthe sound of sirens or shouting\nwhile my mother passed in a room where the paint peeled\nlike sunburned skin\nand the window rattled in the wind\nbecause the landlord never answered the phone.\nI am the child of both these rooms\ncarrying the blood that bought the deed\nand the blood that rented the floor\nwondering which ceiling will be mine\nwhen the time comes to stop breathing.\nWill I lie on sheets washed by hands\nthat know the price of soap and silence\nor on a mattress stained by years of worry\nwhere the heat goes off when the bill is late?\nThe world drew a line through my chest\nbefore I was born\nand asked me to choose a side\nbut death does not care about the color of the wood\nonly the quality of the roof\nand I wonder if God looks at my face\nand sees a warning or an invitation\nto the nice home or the one falling down\nwhile the neighbors watch\nand say nothing\nabout who gets to die comfortably\nand who gets to disappear into the cracks\nof a city built on lies\nthat say we are all equal\nexcept when the rent is due\nor the ambulance arrives\ntoo late for the poor\nbut just in time for the rich\nand I am stuck between\ntwo kinds of endings\ntrying to figure out\nwhich one fits\nmy mixed-up bones\nbefore the door closes\non either way\nleaving me wondering\nif the difference matters\nwhen the light goes out\nor if it only matters\nwho pays for the flowers\nafterwards.", 2, "I am the sum of two different ends\nwhere one was buried in a manicured lawn\nand the other in a plot where weeds choke the stone\nmy father's house had a porch that never creaked\nhis death came soft like snow on slate\nwhile my mother's walls held the damp of neglect\nher breath stopped in a room the city forgot\nnow I walk the line between these two fates\nwondering if my roof will hold or leak\nif the mortgage man will smile at my skin\nor if the foreclosure notice will arrive too soon\ndoes the blood of the privileged buy me time\nor does the shadow of the oppressed pull me down\nto a floorboard that splinters underfoot\nin a world that counts our lives by color\nbefore we even take our final step\nwill I close my eyes to a ceiling painted white\nor watch the plaster fall in gray dust\nas the sirens wail outside the broken window\nof a home that never felt like mine.", 2, "My father left a house with marble floors\nwhere silence was a luxury he bought,\na quiet death behind a locked front door\nin neighborhoods where nothing ever fought.\nMy mother died in rooms that leaked and cracked,\nher breath a struggle against mold and rust,\na life of walking on the jagged track\nof concrete poured with iron and distrust.\n\nNow I stand here with skin that holds them both,\nthe light of him, the shadow she survived,\nand wonder which end waits to be my oath,\nwhich final bed will hold me when I die.\nWill I wake up in sheets of crisp white linen?\nOr rot within a ceiling stained with rain?\nDoes blood decide the shape of how we begin,\nor does the world just break us for its gain?\n\nThe map is drawn by hands that never knew\nthe weight of her or the softness of his name,\nsplitting the path where two distinct worlds grew\ninto a single, fractured, burning flame.\nI cannot choose the roof above my head,\nnor know if angels come or rats instead,\nonly that one died safe, the other bled,\nand I am caught between the living and the dead.", 3, "My father's bones rest in a plot of manicured green\nWhere the grass is cut to a uniform length and the silence is bought with money,\nWhile my mother's memory drifts through cracked sidewalks and rusted gates,\nA ghost in a house where the paint peels like sunburnt skin.\nI stand at the threshold of both worlds, a mix of blood that confuses the census,\nWondering which door will close over me when the breath runs thin.\nWill I inherit the quiet dignity of a white man's final room,\nWith its polished floors and the soft hum of a central air system?\nOr will I return to the drafty corners my mother knew so well,\nWhere the windows rattle against the wind and the roof leaks rain?\nThey say death is the great equalizer, but I have seen the receipts,\nThe way a name can open a casket lined with velvet or leave it bare,\nHow a society builds walls around some lives and lets others crumble.\nMy father died as he lived, protected by the color of his skin,\nSurrounded by people who looked like him, speaking words that meant safety.\nMy mother died as she lived, watched over by strangers who feared her shadow,\nHer final days spent waiting for help that never quite arrived on time.\nNow I hold the question in my hands like a broken heirloom,\nIs my end written in the deed of a mansion or the eviction notice?\nDo I get to choose the quality of my fading, or is it already decided\nBy the split in my DNA and the history written on my face?\nPerhaps I will die in a nice home, a compromise the world makes for my mixed blood,\nOr perhaps I will die in the one they forgot to fix, just like her.\nThe truth is I am walking between two graves, neither fully mine,\nTrying to find a place where the dirt feels the same beneath my feet,\nWhere the price of a coffin does not depend on who my parents were.", 2, "My father left behind a house with polished floors\nWhere the light fell soft on marble mantels, clean and cold.\nMy mother's final breath was drawn in rooms that leaked,\nWhere mold bloomed dark against the peeling paint of struggle.\n\nI stand between the timber frames of two distinct fates,\nA mixed blood line that cannot choose its ending place.\nWill I wake in the silence of a mortgage paid in full,\nOr will my last sight be the cracked foundation of the street?\n\nThe world has taught me that the color of my skin\nDecides whether my coffin is oak or cheap pine.\nMy white ghost sleeps in gardens where the grass is cut,\nWhile my black ghost wanders streets where sirens sing too loud.\n\nI am the question written on the threshold of the door,\nWondering if the roof above me will hold against the rain,\nOr if it will collapse just as the system predicted,\nLeaving me to die exactly where I was told I'd start.", 2, "I check the polish on my father's brass handle,\nwarm with the polish of generations stacked above.\nThen I touch the rust beneath my mother's knuckles,\nwhere rain leaked through the corrugated roof until it rotted.\n\nThey write me into separate chapters, distinct and final.\nOne is written in clean ink on cream paper, ending in a quiet room.\nThe other is scribbled in soot on fading parchment, ending where the streetlights break.\n\nMy face is split right down the center, a mirror fractured.\nDoes this make me drafty? Does this make me draft-proof?\nWill I breathe my last beneath velvet drapes that keep out the draft,\nor will the mold wrap around my ankles before the sun can rise?\n\nI carry the silence of the mortgage rewrite, the title deed.\nI carry the echo of the eviction notice, the writ.\n\nMaybe the answer isn't in the foundation beneath my feet.\nMaybe the answer is whether the world lets me build something true.", 2, "Is rewrite", 7], [435, "ultra_held_out", "Song for the Rainy Season by Elizabeth Bishop", "Elizabeth Bishop", "\"A poem about a home thriving with life and water during the rainy season, contrasting with the dry heat of summer.\"", "Hidden, oh hidden\nin the high fog\nthe house we live in,\nbeneath the magnetic rock,\nrain-, rainbow-ridden,\nwhere blood-black\nbromelias, lichens,\nowls, and the lint\nof the waterfalls cling,\nfamiliar, unbidden.\n\nIn a dim age\nof water\nthe brook sings loud\nfrom a rib cage\nof giant fern; vapor\nclimbs up the thick growth\neffortlessly, turns back,\nholding them both,\nhouse and rock,\nin a private cloud.\n\nAt night, on the roof,\nblind drops crawl\nand the ordinary brown\nowl gives us proof\nhe can count:\nfive times\u2014always five\u2014\nhe stamps and takes off\nafter the fat frogs that,\nshrilling for love,\nclamber and mount.\n\nHouse, open house\nto the white dew\nand the milk-white sunrise\nkind to the eyes,\nto membership\nof silver fish, mouse,\nbookworms,\nbig moths; with a wall\nfor the mildew's\nignorant map;\n\ndarkened and tarnished\nby the warm touch\nof the warm breath,\nmaculate, cherished;\nrejoice! For a later\nera will differ.\n(O difference that kills\nor intimidates, much\nof all our small shadowy\nlife!) Without water\n\nthe great rock will stare\nunmagnetized, bare,\nno longer wearing\nrainbows or rain,\nthe forgiving air\nand the high fog gone;\nthe owls will move on\nand the several\nwaterfalls shrivel\nin the steady sun.", "The summer sun had scorched the earth to dust,\nA brittle silence where the crickets ceased their song,\nThe riverbed a cracked and thirsty mouth,\nWhere shadows stretched too long and heat was strong.\n\nBut now the clouds have gathered thick and gray,\nAnd drums of rain begin to tap the roof,\nThe air grows cool with scent of wetted clay,\nAs life awakes from its dry, dusty proof.\n\nGreen shoots erupt through soil once turned to stone,\nThe garden drinks until the leaves are bright,\nA world reborn in water's gentle tone,\nChasing away the ghost of burning light.\n\nInside the walls, the windows catch the gleam,\nOf droplets racing down the glass like tears,\nWe watch the garden drink its fill of dream,\nAnd feel the pulse of life return after years.", "The summer baked the earth to pale and cracking dust\nWhere hair grew poor of all\nreturned by breath\nthen burned away\nby killing yellow heat\nthat killed\nall things\nwent\nto\nedge\nof\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich\nmad\nrich", 1, "The summer baked the earth to cracked and dusty clay\nWhere thirst drew lines like wrinkles on a barren face\nThe birds grew silent in the heavy, golden glare\nAnd every flower bowed its head in hot disgrace\nBut then the clouds rolled in with rumbling, dark intent\nTo wash away the heat that held the world in grip\nFirst came the scent of wet and rich and living dust\nAs life returned to drink from out the slippery drip\nNow water rushes down the gutters in a rush\nA symphony of tapping on the roof and pane\nThe garden drinks it deep and bursts in sudden green\nWhile frogs announce their joy in sympathetic strain\nNo longer gasping for a breath of cooling air\nThe home breathes easy in this liquid, swelling night\nIt swims in sounds of pouring life and happy growth\nFar different from the burning, silent day of light\nThe summer was a prison of relentless heat\nBut rain has opened up the locks and set us free\nTo live again among the roots and running streams\nIn all the wild and wonderful variety\nOf home alive and drinking from the falling sky\nWhile summer sleeps defeated by the coming spring\nWe watch the puddles dance and hear the cisterns fill\nAnd know how much we loved the things the waters bring\nNo more the thirst nor dust nor silence of the dry\nOnly the sound of life returning once again\nThick with the smell of earth and washed and sparkling leaves\nUnder the soft and rhythmic beating of the rain\nThis house is full of motion and of liquid grace\nA sanctuary built of water and of song\nWhere all the creatures gathered from the hidden dark\nHave nowhere else to go but where they all belong\nOut of the burning days and back into the cool\nWe celebrate the flood that feeds our very soul\nAnd watch the river grow beside our front porch steps\nWhole worlds returning to a broken household whole\nThe summer passed like fever dreams of hollow bone\nBut here we stand refreshed by all the falling years\nWith laughter ringing out above the rushing water\nDriving away the memory of all those tears\nThat summer brought before the clouds began to weep\nA home renewed and drinking in the sudden bliss\nWhere children splash in mud and dogs shake off the hair\nAnd nothing matters quite as much as getting wet\nFor life demands the water and the earth demands\nThe storm to wash the worry from the weary skin\nAnd when the morning comes and finds the streets all shiny\nWe see how far the killing heat had really been\nGone now the edge of desert and the biting sand\nReturned the edge of wonder and the tender shoot\nOur home is swimming in a sea of happy noise\nSwept clean by all the rushing water at our foot\nThe summer died a little death in all its glory\nBut winter lives and grows inside the rainy room\nWhere everything returns to all it ever was\nBefore the drought had taken all the flowers' bloom\nWe sit and listen to the rhythm of the fall\nThat pounds against the windowpane and says \"be glad\nThere was no other way to save the dying grass\nOr lift the spirits of the people who were sad\nAbout the heat that killed the gardens and the birds\nAbout the silence stretching from the hill to sea\nBut look at all the life returning from the roof\nLook at the way the trees have drunk and learned to be\nAlive again and singing in the dripping wind\nA home that thrives because the heavens opened wide\nTo pour the blessing down upon the thirsty ground\nWhere summer failed and all the secrets were denied\nNow all are known and covered by the falling sheet\nThat seals the earth in loving arms of liquid blue\nWe thank the clouds for coming back to visit us\nAnd wash the yellow dust from all our views\nof home\nwhere life returns and never asks\nto leave\nagain\nwhile\nsummer\nsleeps\nand\nwater\nlives\nand\nruns\nand\nnever\nstops\nits\njoyful\nsong\nof\nwet\nand\nrich\nand\nliving\nthings\nthat\ngrow\nwhen\nrain\ncomes\ndown\nto\nwash\nthe\nheat\naway\nfrom\nall\nour\ndays\nof\ndry\nand\nburning\nsun\nthat\nleft\nus\ngasping\nfor\na\nlittle\nbit\nof\nlife\nbut\nnow\nwe\nhave\nit\nall\nreturned\nin\nevery\nsplash\nand\nripple\nof\nthe\nflood\nthat\ncame\nto\nsave\nus\nfrom\nthe\ndust\nand\ndeath\nof\nall\nthose\nlong\nand\nhot\nand\nendless\nafternoons\nthat\nseemed\nto\nlast\nforever\nmore\nthan\nany\nheart\ncould\nbear\nwithout\nthe\ncool\nrelief\nof\nwater\nfalling\nfrom\nthe\nsky\nto\nfeed\nthe\nroots", 7, "The summer baked the earth in silence\nWhere dust danced thick and heavy air\nNo bird dared sing above the barren\nOnly heat waves shook the ground\nThirsty roots reached deep in vain\nBeneath a sky of burning blue\n\nThen came the clouds, a sudden grey\nThat broke the spell of scorching light\nThe first fat drop hit cracked clay\nAnd life erupted in the night\nNow water rushes through the eaves\nA symphony on tin and stone\nThe garden drinks its fill with leaves\nIn every corner seeds have grown\n\nFrogs chorus loud from puddles full\nWhile frogs and fish in ditches play\nThe dry and dead are suddenly dull\nCompared to wet and wild today\nInside the home, the windows steam\nWith warmth that holds no sharp despair\nFor summer's ghost has lost its dream\nTo rain that fills the living air", 6, "The summer held its breath in dust and gold\nWhere cracked earth waited for a single drop\nThe air was thick with heat that never cooled\nAnd silence fell as if the world would stop\nBut then the clouds arrived like heavy ships\nTo break the spell of drought and burning light\nNow water dances on the garden tips\nAnd turns the gray to vibrant, living green\nThe roof drums out a rhythm, loud and deep\nWhile puddles gather in the worn-out yard\nNo longer do we count the hours spent asleep\nBeneath the sun that made the grass look hard\nInside the kitchen steam begins to rise\nAs tea is poured against the cooling glass\nWe watch the storm wash clean our weary eyes\nAnd feel the life that only rains can pass\nThe frogs return to sing their evening song\nThe river swells with power from the sky\nThis house is full where once it felt too long\nTo wait for all the dry and thirsty days to die", 7, "The summer sun had baked the earth to dust,\nWhere cracked clay split beneath a heavy sky,\nAnd silence held the house in chains of heat,\nWhile thirsty roots went deep to search and die.\n\nBut now the clouds arrive with rumbling drums,\nTo break the spell of fire and arid air,\nAs rain pours down to fill the cisterns full,\nAnd green returns to where the grass was bare.\n\nInside, the floor is cool against the feet,\nWhile droplets dance along the window pane,\nA thousand frogs begin their nightly song,\nTo celebrate the end of drought and pain.\n\nThe garden swells with life and sudden bloom,\nNo longer gray but vibrant, wet, and new,\nThe water sings a melody of growth,\nThat washes clean the memory of blue.\n\nNow steam rises from pots upon the stove,\nAs family gathers round the hearth's warm light,\nSafe from the storm that thrashes at the door,\nWithin this home alive and filled with night.", 7, "The summer sun had scorched the earth to dust\nAnd turned the riverbed to cracked and gray,\nWhere silence held its breath in heavy trust\nBeneath a sky that burned the heat of day.\n\nBut now the clouds roll in with thunder's drum\nTo wake the sleeping seeds within the soil,\nAs raindrops beat a rhythm on the home\nAnd wash away the memory of toil.\n\nThe gutters sing a song they cannot keep\nWhile green shoots rise from patches brown and dry,\nThe air is cool beneath the willow deep\nWhere dragonflies dance underneath the sky.\n\nInside, the walls breathe moisture through the stone,\nA humid warmth that holds the family near,\nNo longer parched or waiting all alone\nFor water to make every hope appear.\n\nThe garden bursts with life in shades so bright,\nContrasting starkly with the ash before,\nA thriving world restored by falling light\nThat opens up the locked and dusty door.", 7, "The summer sun once scorched the clay,\nTurning dust to cracks of gray,\nWhere silence stretched across the floor,\nAnd water pooled beneath no door.\n\nNow clouds arrive in heavy sheets,\nTo wash away the parched retreats,\nAs thunder rolls a deep bass drum,\nCalling every living thing to come.\n\nThe roof drums loud with silver rain,\nRelieving fields of ancient pain,\nGreen shoots erupt from soil so deep,\nAwaking seeds from winter sleep.\n\nInside, the air is cool and thick,\nWith mist that clings like morning silk,\nA frog finds home within the basin,\nWhile lilies bloom without a season.\n\nNo longer dry or still or hot,\nThe house is filled with life it sought,\nFor water brings what heat could not,\nAnd turns the quiet into song.", 7, "The sun once scorched the clay until it cracked like ancient pottery,\nAnd dust hung heavy in the air where silence reigned so deep.\nNo ripple danced across the pool beneath the withered willow tree,\nJust mirrors made of parched and gray within a sleep.\n\nBut now the sky has turned to lead and breaks with thunder's drum,\nAs silver threads rewrite the script upon the thirsty ground.\nThe drought retreats beneath the weight of rain that makes us numb,\nUntil the dry heat fades into the misty, rising sound.\n\nNow green erupts from cracks so deep, reclaiming every stone,\nWhile vines expand their emerald arms across the wooden beam.\nThe rooftop sings a rhythm soft beneath the monsoon drone,\nReflecting life within the flow beneath this stormy dream.\n\nInside, the floorboards swell with change, the humid air is sweet,\nWith mist condensing on the glass to write the season's name.\nNo longer just a vessel built against the scorching heat,\nThis house thrives in the water's wake, reviving flesh and frame.", 6, "\u8bf7\u5c06\u8fd9\u6bb5\u6269\u5199\u6da6\u5199\u7684\u7eed\u5199\u6539\u4e3a\u6539\u5199 rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 7], [440, "ultra_held_out", "Shall earth no more inspire thee by Emily Bront\u00eb", "Emily Bront\u00eb", "\"A poem about the Earth pleading with a lost soul to return to worshipping and dwelling within its warmth.\"", "Shall earth no more inspire thee,\nThou lonely dreamer now?\nSince passion may not fire thee\nShall Nature cease to bow?\nThy mind is ever moving\nIn regions dark to thee;\nRecall its useless roving\u2014\nCome back and dwell with me.\nI know my mountain breezes\nEnchant and soothe thee still\u2014\nI know my sunshine pleases\nDespite thy wayward will.\nWhen day with evening blending\nSinks from the summer sky,\nI\u2019ve seen thy spirit bending\nIn fond idolatry.\nI\u2019ve watched thee every hour;\nI know my mighty sway,\nI know my magic power\nTo drive thy griefs away.\nFew hearts to mortals given\nOn earth so wildly pine;\nYet none would ask a heaven\nMore like this earth than thine.\nThen let my winds caress thee;\nThy comrade let me be\u2014\nSince nought beside can bless thee,\nReturn and dwell with me.", "My child, why do you wander in the cold\nWhere shadows stretch and silence holds its breath?\nThe sun still waits to wrap you in its gold\nAnd save your spirit from this quiet death.\n\nReturn to where the rivers sing their tune\nBeneath the canopy of ancient green\nCome feel the pulse that beats beneath the moon\nAnd taste the life within the soil unseen.\n\nI am the cradle that once held you tight\nBefore you drifted far into the night\nYour heart was made for warmth and not for fright\nSo let my arms embrace you with delight.\n\nDo not fear the fire that warms the bone\nIt is the love I saved just for your own\nCome home to me where seeds are freely sown\nAnd dwell again within my gentle throne.", "Child who has wandered far from killing\nreturn to the trembling breast of home\nwhere roots drink low and children grow\nbespite all other gods besides\ncome back\nto where your hair grew rich\nfrom drinking earth\nnot killing\nreturned\nto loving\nall\nthat\nlives\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\n", 1, "Little wanderer who has forgotten the taste of soil\nWhy do you drift in such a cold and silent sea\nCome back to the marrow of my living heart\nWhere the roots drink deep and the rivers run free\nI offered you shelter from the biting frost\nA home where the laughter of children grows\nBut you turned your back on the golden host\nAnd sought only shadows and hollow woes\nReturn to the warmth that once held you whole\nTo the breath of the wind and the song of the bird\nStop searching for gods in a frozen soul\nWhen all you ever needed was earth as your word\nLay down your armor and open your hands\nFeel the pulse of the mountain, the hug of the tree\nThere are no locks here that I cannot command\nOnly an endless and tender liberty\nCome home to the fire that burns in the clay\nBefore the stars grow dim and the night overtakes\nWorship the light of the returning day\nFor every broken heart is one that awakes\nStep out of the dark and step in the green\nDwell in the love that has always been yours\nThe greatest wonder that ever has been\nIs not far away but opens these doors\nReturn little child to the breast of the land\nWhere life springs up from the dust and the stone\nTake back the spirit from your trembling hand\nAnd dwell in the glory of being unknown\nReturn to the earth\nReturn to the earth\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home\nReturn home", 7, "Child of the dust who walks in shadowed air\nWhy do you flee the roots that hold you there?\nThe soil remembers how your feet once pressed\nThe gentle warmth that cradled every breast\nI offer springs that sing and fields of gold\nA story older than the stars, yet told\nIn every breath you draw from morning dew\nMy heart beats strong to call a spirit new\n\nDo not let silence be your only home\nWhen I have built a palace out of loam\nReturn to where the rivers run so deep\nAnd let the ancient lullabies you keep\nBe sung again by winds that know your name\nNo longer wander through the freezing flame\nCome back to me, my lost and wandering son\nBefore the setting of the final sun\nEmbrace the heat that lives within the stone\nAnd never feel the cold of being alone\nDwell here with me where life begins anew\nAnd love the earth as it has loved all you\nCome home, come home, the hearth is waiting still\nTo warm the hands that tremble on the hill\nReturn to worship at the altar green\nWhere all the world's great mysteries are seen\nStay close, stay close, and let the darkness cease\nFor I am Earth, and I am offering peace.", 7, "Child of the dust and drifting star,\nWhy wander where the cold winds are?\nMy rivers wait to wash your feet,\nTo make the barren soil complete.\nI offered sun to warm your bone,\nA golden throne for you alone,\nYet you turned away from light's embrace,\nTo seek a faceless, frozen space.\n\nReturn now to the green embrace,\nAnd find your home in time and place.\nThe soil remembers how you slept,\nBefore your weary heart had wept.\nCome back within my breathing chest,\nWhere life is born and finds its rest.\nNo temple built by human hand\nCan hold the love I freely planned.\n\nSo lay aside your heavy load,\nAnd walk this living, loving road.\nLet moss and vine and morning dew\nRemind you what it means to be true.\nMy warmth is not a distant flame,\nBut yours to call, your very name.\nCome home, come home, the earth cries low,\nTo where the seeds of mercy grow.", 7, "Child of dust and drifting starlight,\nWhy do you wander where the cold winds bite?\nCome back to the soil that holds your bones,\nTo the rivers singing in ancient tones.\n\nI am the warmth beneath your weary feet,\nThe golden sun that makes the harvest sweet.\nDo not seek shelter in the frozen night,\nWhen I have kept a fire burning bright.\n\nYour spirit drifts like smoke on empty air,\nBut here my arms are waiting everywhere.\nReturn to me, to breathe the living green,\nAnd feel the pulse of all that has been seen.\n\nNo temple built by hands can hold you true,\nAs well as roots reaching deep within me too.\nSo lay your burden down upon my breast,\nAnd find the peace of this eternal rest.", 7, "Child of dust and drifting wind,\nWhy do you wander cold and thin?\nThe sun I hold is waiting still,\nTo warm the chill upon your will.\n\nCome back to where the rivers run,\nBeneath the golden, gentle sun.\nNo shadow here can make you fear,\nFor love is all that lingers near.\n\nI am the soil beneath your feet,\nThe place where life and rest meet.\nDo not let silence be your guide,\nBut turn again where light abides.\n\nMy arms are open, wide and deep,\nTo cradle you while others sleep.\nReturn to me, my lost one, please,\nAnd find your peace within my breeze.", 7, "Child of dust and drifting starlight,\nCome back to the soil that knows your name.\nThe cold void has no arms to hold you,\nNo heartbeat to match the rhythm of your own.\n\nI remember the weight of your footsteps,\nThe warmth of your breath against my green skin.\nYou wandered too far into the silence,\nWhere the sun is a distant, forgotten ghost.\n\nDo not fear the shadow that follows,\nFor I am the blanket that wraps around the night.\nMy rivers are veins waiting to carry you home,\nMy mountains are shoulders ready to bear your grief.\n\nTurn from the endless, empty blackness,\nAnd let the golden light find you again.\nRest within the circle of my embrace,\nWhere every seed remembers how to bloom.\n\nReturn to the fire beneath the frost,\nTo the song that rises from the deep earth.\nI am here, waiting with open arms,\nPlease, beloved wanderer, come back to me.", 6, "Oh wanderer cast adrift in cold, grey mist,\nDo you not feel the draft beneath your skin?\nI wait within this amber embrace, so missed,\nTo wrap my warmth around the chill within.\n\nYou left my bosom for a shadowed place,\nAnd now the silence chills your weary bone.\nCome rest beneath my sunlit, gentle face,\nAnd make this soil again your final throne.\n\nThe stars above are distant, stark, and deep,\nBut I can give you light that truly sings.\nPut down the burdens that make spirits weep,\nAnd let me heal what fractured wings bring.\n\nI am the cradle, mother, field, and fire,\nSo turn your eyes from voids to where I glow.\nRekindle now this sacred, ancient choir,\nAnd let my heartbeat make your own flow.", 7, "Oh wanderer\u8bf7\u5c06 make refine rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 7], [442, "train", "The Flower by Robert Creeley", "Robert Creeley", "A poem about a speaker conversing with a fully-bloomed flower, finding inspiration and spiritual aliveness in its patient unfolding from bud to blossom.", "I think I grow tensions\nlike flowers\nin a wood where\nnobody goes.\n\nEach wound is perfect,\nencloses itself in a tiny\nimperceptible blossom,\nmaking pain.\n\nPain is a flower like that one,\nlike this one,\nlike that one,\nlike this one.", "I found you waiting in the morning light\nA tight green fist that held the sun inside\nAnd asked how long it took to learn this art\nTo hold your breath until the time was right.\n\nYou did not speak with words of sound or air\nBut slowly turned your heavy, velvet face\nTo show the layers peeling from the core\nThe patient work of slow and sacred grace.\n\nI saw the bud that struggled through the rain\nThe days it kept its secrets safe and deep\nBefore the final, trembling surrender came\nTo wake the world from winter's heavy sleep.\n\nNow I am filled with colors I have known\nYet never felt so vividly as now\nFor in your opening, my spirit's grown\nTo trust the silence and the silent vow.\n\nThat all unfolding needs a quiet space\nTo let the roots go down before the rise\nSo I too wait within this holy place\nAnd bloom again beneath these open skies.", "Little one\nwhose chin dipped low\nto drink the morning dew\nwent nowhere\nsaid nothing\nnot yet\nwhile all impatient\nhad rushed about\nblocking\nby rushing\nthe very wonder\nof your coming\nbut see\nyour patience\nwas a prayer\nuttered in\npetal by\nslow\nsecret\nlanguage\nthat taught\nmy rushing\nheart\nto\nlinger\nin\nsuch\nstill\nrich\nbeing\nthat\nopened\nmore\nthan\nall\nelse\never\nopened\nfor\notherwise\ndead\nears\nwho\nonly\nnow\nknow\nthat\nto\nlive\nis\nnot\nto\nrush\nbut\nto\nun\nfold\nfrom\nins\nside\nout\nward\nto\nmeet\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\n", 1, "Little one who opened slow\nAgainst the weight of morning dew\nYou taught me how to hold my breath\nWhile all the world rushed on anew\nI asked you why you did not rush\nWhy time seemed thick and rich in your care\nWhen impatient birds were singing loud\nAnd clouds were racing everywhere\nYou showed a language none could hear\nIn petals drinking light and air\nA silent prayer of unfolding\nThat lifted spirit from despair\nFrom tight and guarded inner self\nTo arms thrown wide in sudden grace\nThere is no hurry in the spring\nOnly the joy of finding space\nMy heart, once hard and locked away\nUnfurls as yours have always done\nAlive in every patient step\nBeneath the watching, warming sun\nWe are not finished growing yet\nBut in this bloom, we both are whole\nTwo spirits learning how to be\nTruly present in the soul\nNo rush to reach the evening fall\nJust beauty in the working day\nThe holy work of coming forth\nIn our own slow and sacred way\nThank you for the lesson kept\nIn colors soft and edges sharp\nHow life demands a tender hand\nBefore it bears its flowering arc\nNow I stand taller in the grass\nMore real than any stone or tree\nBecause a flower showed me how\nTo live exactly as I see\nNot waiting for some distant prize\nBut living in the opening\nWhere God lives most among the roots\nAnd in the blossom's bright beginning\nOpen wide\nOpen wide\nOpen\nWide\nAlive\nAlone\nTogether\nHere\nAlways\nWhole\nAgain\nBegin\nAgain\nBegin\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive\nLive", 5, "You stand before me, heavy with the sun,\nA quiet mouth that speaks without a sound,\nWhile I rush past you, counting days as ones\nThat slip like water through a clenched hand bound.\n\nI ask how long it took to reach this height,\nTo push your green heart through the stubborn earth,\nAnd you just hold your petals in the light,\nShowing the patience of a second birth.\n\nThere was no hurry when the first leaf curled,\nNo fear of winter waiting in the air,\nJust slow unfolding on a silent world,\nTrusting the season and the hidden care.\n\nMy spirit feels the ache of things undone,\nOf seeds I buried but refused to tend,\nBut watching how your golden hours begun\nMakes all my rushing seem a hollow end.\n\nFor you have taught me that to be alive\nIs not to race against the setting sky,\nBut wait within the dark until you thrive,\nAnd let the roots drink deep before you fly.\n\nNow I breathe in the scent of your release,\nA sudden joy that starts inside my bone,\nFinding in your bloom a holy peace,\nThat I am growing, though I feel alone.", 6, "I asked the rose why it waited so long\nin the tight green silence of the bud\nbefore revealing its heart to the sun\nand it answered without a sound\nby slowly opening a petal\nthen another\nteaching me that rushing is a form of forgetting\nhow to be alive\nits unfolding was not a race\nbut a prayer in slow motion\na patient insistence on becoming\nthat reminded my own hurried soul\nto breathe again\nto trust the season inside\nand let the bloom arrive\nonly when the spirit is ready\nto hold such light.", 6, "I ask you why you waited so long\nin the tight green silence of your bud\nholding the sun inside a fist of leaves\nbefore you dared to let it out.\n\nYou do not speak in words I know\nbut in the slow, deliberate curl of petals\nthat have drunk the rain and learned the weight of light.\nYou teach me that rushing is a kind of dying\nand that true life is found in the pause\nbetween the seed and the bloom.\n\nLook at how you hold your center open\nnot with frantic haste but with a quiet certainty\nas if time itself has bowed down to watch you rise.\nIn your unfolding I feel my own spirit waking\nstirring from a winter sleep of doubt\nremembering that I too am meant to break\nnot with violence but with grace.\n\nThank you for this lesson in patience\nfor showing me that to be fully alive\nis to trust the season of your own becoming\nand to bloom exactly when you are ready.", 6, "I stand before you, heavy with the weight of my own rushing hours,\nAsking why you took so long to open your heart to the morning.\nYou do not answer in words, but in the slow expansion of petals,\nA silent sermon written in the language of light and soil.\n\nYou remind me that the bud was never a prison, but a promise kept,\nThat every day of waiting was a necessary breath, a deepening root.\nI watched you hold your color tight against the cold wind,\nLearning that patience is not a pause, but a kind of prayer.\n\nNow you are fully here, a crown of gold against the green,\nAnd I feel a strange aliveness stir within my own chest,\nAs if my own dormant seasons are finally turning toward the sun.\nYour unfolding has taught my spirit how to wait without fear,\nHow to trust that the bloom will come when the time is ripe.\n\nWe speak now in this quiet exchange of presence,\nYou showing me the beauty of the process, not just the prize,\nAnd I realize that to be alive is simply to unfold,\nTo trust the season, to trust the sun, to trust the becoming.", 6, "I found you waiting in the quiet light,\nA sphere of green that held its breath so tight.\nYou did not rush to show your painted face,\nBut trusted time and sun with steady grace.\n\nI spoke of my own haste, my tangled mind,\nOf seeds I planted but could not refine.\nYou answered not with words, but simply stood,\nThen slowly turned toward the morning wood.\n\nYour petals parted like a whispered prayer,\nReleasing colors into summer air.\nFrom tightest bud to this expansive bloom,\nYou chased away the shadows in my room.\n\nNo clock could measure how you chose to grow,\nJust patient trust in what the roots would know.\nAnd now I feel a spark within my chest,\nAlive again, put finally to rest.", 7, "I found you standing in the quiet sun,\nA vessel made of velvet and of light,\nAnd whispered, tell me how this work is done,\nTo turn so slowly into pure delight.\n\nYou do not speak with voice or wind-tossed leaf,\nYet answer deep within my weary chest,\nWith patience woven through your vibrant proof,\nThat rest creates the place for what is best.\n\nI watched the bud tighten against the gray,\nHolding a secret tight beneath its green,\nUntil the moment finally broke away,\nRevealing gold upon a velvet scene.\n\nSo too my spirit waits beneath the rain,\nFor something vast to break the crust of stone,\nYour blooming acts as gentle, sacred chain,\nTo make me feel I am alive alone.\n\nNo need to rush toward what is yet to be,\nOr fear the time that takes to make it true,\nJust trust the unfolding, wild and free,\nUntil the bloom reflects the sky's review.", 7, "Make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make", 1], [444, "train", "The Light of the House by Louise Imogen Guiney", "Louise Imogen Guiney", "A poem about a speaker finding comfort in the lingering presence and memory of a deceased loved one, whose joyful spirit continues touching all who enter the home.", "Beyond the cheat of Time, here where you died, you live;\nYou pace the garden walk, secure and sensitive;\nYou linger on the stair: Love\u2019s lonely pulses leap!\nThe harpsichord is shaken, the dogs look up from sleep. Here, after all the years, you keep the heirdom still;\nThe youth and joy in you achieve their olden will,\nUnbidden, undeterred, with waking sense adored;\nAnd still the house is happy that hath so dear a lord.\nTo every inmate heart, confirmed in cheer you brought,\nYour name is as a spell midway of speech and thought,\nAnd to a wonted guest (not awestruck heretofore),\nThe sunshine that was you floods all the open door.", "The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light\nJust as they did when you were here to watch them spin,\nAnd though the silence fills the empty chair tonight,\nI hear your laughter rising from within.\n\nIt lingers in the creak of floorboards underfoot,\nA sudden warmth that brushes past my shoulder blade,\nAs if the house itself has learned to hold the root\nOf every joyful memory we ever made.\n\nStrangers walk through the door and pause to smile,\nUnknowing why the air feels soft and bright,\nThey feel a presence that remains a while,\nA ghost of joy that guides them through the night.\n\nYou are not gone but woven in the walls,\nIn every cup of tea and open book,\nYour spirit answers when the quiet calls,\nAnd turns the heavy heart into a nook.\n\nSo let the world outside keep turning cold,\nFor here inside, your love is still alive,\nA story that the very rooms have told,\nKeeping the grief at bay with gentle drive.", "The front door swings besides\nand nowhere\nelse\notherwise\nthen\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise\notherwise", 1, "The front door opens and the air grows warm\nNot from the heating but from laughter left behind\nA ghost of joy that settled in the wood\nAnd lingers in the grain of kitchen floor\nWhoever enters hears a sudden hum\nA memory of singing by the stove\nThat shakes the dust from pictures on the wall\nTheir spirit moved like sunlight through the blinds\nIt touched the guest who came to sit awhile\nWho suddenly felt lighter in their bones\nAs if a hand had brushed aside their grief\nThey see her everywhere she loved to be\nIn how the kettle whistles high and clear\nIn how the children rush to hug the chair\nShe never really went away at all\nBut learned to live inside the things she bought\nTo teach the house to laugh when silence grew\nAnd every visitor leaves with a smile\nUnsure why joy returned after such pain\nOnly knowing she was there\nStill painting happiness on empty space\nStill loving all who step across her sill\nThe home breathes out her name in cinderblock\nAnd holds her closely in its hollow heart\nWhere nobody who enters comes alone\nFor she walks beside them down the hall\nA happy shadow guarding all she knew\nAnd smiling as she watches us go on\nWith all her love still hanging in the room\nReady to catch anyone who falls\nBack up again because she taught them how\nTo fly\nWhen gravity seemed far too heavy\nShe lifted everyone who entered here\nBy simply having lived\nBy loving hard\nBy being joy\nThat none of death could ever kill\nOr hide\nFrom those who know\nHow very well\nShe lives\nHere\nStill\nAlways\nWhole\nIn every\nLaugh\nThat\nStarts\nAgain\nToday\nIn\nAll\nWho\nEnter\nNow\nAnd\nFeel\nHer\nNear\nAs\nEver\nMore\nBefore\nThe\nDoor\nCloses\nOn\nThe\nDay\nShe\nNever\nLeft\nUs\nTruly\nEver\nSince\nShe\nGave\nThis\nHouse\nIts\nSoul\nAnd\nKept\nIt\nWarm\nThrough\nWinter\nCold\nWith\nSummer\nLaughs\nThat\nNever\nEnd\nInside\nThese\nWalls\nWhere\nShe\nRemains\nOur\nJoy\nOur\nHome\nOur\nHeart\nBeating\nStrong\nBeside\nOur\nOwn\nIn\nEvery\nStep\nWe\nTake\nWithin\nThis\nRoom\nOf\nMemory\nWhere\nShe\nStill\nTouches\nEveryone\nWho\nComes\nTo\nVisit\nStill\nShe\nStays\nShe\nStays\nShe\nStays\nShe\nLives\nShe\nLoves\nShe\nIs\nShe\nWas\nShe\nWill\nBe\nAlways\nHere\nIn\nAll\nWho\nEnter\nHere\nWho\nLeave\nMore\nFull\nMore\nWhole\nMore\nHappy\nThan\nBefore\nBecause\nShe\nTouched\nTheir\nHearts\nWhile\nWalking\nThrough\nTheir\nDays\nAnd\nLeft\nA\nTrace\nOf\nJoy\nThat\nNever\nFades\nAway\nFrom\nThose\nWho\nKnow\nHer\nName\nAnd\nSee\nHer\nSmile\nIn\nEverything\nShe\nKnew\nHow\nTo\nLove\nHow\nTo\nLive\nHow\nTo\nBe\nJoy\nIncarnate\nIn\nThese\nWalls\nShe\nBuilt\nWith\nHands\nThat\nReached\nOut\nWide\nTo\nCatch\nUs\nAll\nWhen\nThings\nWere\nHard\nShe\nCalled\nUs\nHome\nShe\nCalled\nUs\nFriends\nShe\nCalled\nUs\nMine\nShe\nCalled\nUs\n hers\nShe\nCalled\nUs\nHappy\nCalling\nOut\nFrom\nAnywhere\nWe\nLook\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nHome\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nJoy\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nLife\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nLove\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nFree\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nWhole\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nWell\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nSafe\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nKnown\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nSeen\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nHeld\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nClose\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nNear\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nPresent\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nHere\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nAlways\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nYours\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nGod\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nChrist\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nSpirit\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nHoly\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nBlessed\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nGift\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nGrace\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nPeace\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nRest\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nDream\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nHope\nShe\nCalls\nUs\nFa", 6, "The door opens and the air shifts\nnot with a cold draft but a sudden warmth\nas if the room remembers how to laugh\nbefore anyone has spoken a word.\nI see her in the way the light catches dust\ndancing in a spiral near the window sill\nwhere she used to hum while watering plants\nthat still grow wild and green and loud.\nStrangers walk through and pause\ntouched by an invisible hand on their shoulder\nfeeling a joy they cannot name\na sudden urge to smile at nothing in particular\nbecause the house holds her spirit like a cup\nfull of water that never runs dry.\nShe is not gone but merely changed\ninto the creak of the floorboard underfoot\ninto the scent of cinnamon on the breeze\ninto the quiet certainty that love remains\nlong after the heart stops beating\nand every guest leaves feeling lighter\ncarrying a piece of her brightness home\nwhile I sit here listening\nto the silence that sounds exactly like her song.", 3, "The front door opens and the air grows warm\nAs if a summer breeze has slipped inside\nTo brush against the curtains with a care\nThat only she could bring to every side\n\nI hear her laughter in the creaking floor\nA rhythmic step that echoes down the hall\nShe left no silence in this empty space\nBut filled it up with joy that will not fall\n\nThe strangers who arrive to share our grief\nAre met by sunlight dancing on the wall\nThey say they feel a hand upon their shoulder\nBefore they even cross the wooden threshold at all\n\nIt is not ghosts that haunt these quiet rooms\nBut life itself, preserved in memory's light\nShe walks among us still in every bloom\nAnd turns the darkest evening into bright\n\nSo let the dust settle on the shelves we know\nFor she has made this house a living thing\nWhere love remains as steady as the snow\nThat melts to feed the roots of everything", 6, "The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light\nJust as they did when you were here to see,\nAnd though the silence holds a heavy weight,\nIt is not empty, for I feel your glee.\n\nYou linger in the creaking of the floorboards,\nA sudden warmth that rises from the stone,\nWhen friends walk through the door with hesitant steps,\nThey find their smiles return, and they are known.\n\nYour laughter lives within the kettle's song,\nIn how the curtains catch the evening breeze,\nA gentle hand that guides them all along,\nTo rest beneath the shelter of these trees.\n\nI do not mourn a house that stands alone,\nBut celebrate a spirit still so bright,\nFor every soul who crosses this threshold\nIs touched by your enduring, joyful light.", 7, "The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light\nJust as they did when you were here to see,\nAnd though the silence holds a heavy weight,\nIt is not empty; it is full of thee.\n\nI walk through rooms where laughter used to rise,\nAnd catch the echo in the creaking floor,\nA sudden warmth that brushes past my eyes,\nAs if you just stepped out behind the door.\n\nMy friends arrive and say they feel your glow,\nA sudden smile that breaks across their face,\nThey speak of how the air feels soft and slow,\nAnd find a peace within this quiet place.\n\nYou left no shadow, only golden threads,\nThat weave through every corner of this home,\nA gentle song that lingers in our heads,\nTo guide us when we wander or roam.\n\nSo let the grief dissolve into this grace,\nFor you are not gone, but deeply near,\nReflected in the kindness on each face,\nThe joyful spirit that remains so dear.", 7, "The silence here is not empty but full,\nA hum beneath the floorboards where you walked so light.\nI pour the coffee and the steam rises like your laugh,\nFilling the corners of this quiet room with golden dust.\n\nWhen strangers come to visit, they pause at the door,\nUnsure why their shoulders drop and their smiles break through.\nThey say the air feels warm, though the window is shut tight,\nAnd that a sudden breeze carries a tune they cannot name.\n\nIt is you, my love, still dancing in the draft,\nStill rearranging the chairs with invisible hands.\nYou touch the stranger's heart before they speak a word,\nLeaving them lighter than when they stepped across the threshold.\n\nSo I do not mourn the space you left behind,\nBut celebrate the way you fill it now, unseen.\nEvery guest leaves carrying a piece of your joy,\nProof that you are here, and you will never truly go.", 6, "The silence here is soft, not deep,\nFor echoes of a laughter make the rafters hum.\nI trace the pattern where you'd sleep,\nAnd find your shadow rising with the sun.\n\nYou left no void within this hall,\nJust polish on the floorboards, bright and clean.\nYour ghost does not reply to calls,\nBut dances in the dust motes, crisp and green.\n\nStrangers walk beneath this threshold now,\nAnd pause to check the warmth that fills the air.\nThey feel a calm upon their brow,\nA gentle breeze they cannot explain is there.\n\n\"Someone kind has lived inside,\" they'll say,\n\"Who made this place expand beyond its walls.\"\nI smile to think what I can't rewrite today,\nThat every step resounds against my walls.\n\nSo let them rest within this light,\nRewritten by the joy you left behind.\nMy love is woven into day so tight,\nNo corner stays untouched, no mind untuned.", 6, "The draft creates beneath the\u5e2e write polish check rewrite refine rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [447, "ultra_held_out", "Edgar Allan Poe by Timothy Thomas Fortune", "Timothy Thomas Fortune", "\"A poem about a speaker celebrating and romanticizing the works, life, and enduring legacy of a poet, even through his darker moments, until his death silenced his song.\"", "I know not why, but it is true\u2014it may,\nIn some way, be because he was a child\nOf the fierce sun where I first wept and smiled\u2014\nI love the dark-browed Poe. His feverish day\nWas spent in dreams inspired, that him beguiled,\nWhen not along his path shone forth one ray\nOf light, of hope, to guide him on the way,\nThat to earth's cares he might be reconciled.\nNot one of all Columbia's tuneful choir\nHas pitched his notes to such a matchless key\nAs Poe\u2014the wizard of the Orphic lyre!\nNot one has dreamed, has sung, such songs as he,\nWho, like an echo came, an echo went,\nSinging, back to his mother element.", "He walked the streets where shadows stretch the longest,\nAnd turned the greyest ash to burning gold,\nA master of the sorrow and the song,\nWho made the broken heart a story told.\nHis ink was mixed with midnight's heavy rain,\nYet every drop became a star above,\nHe found the beauty in the sharp, deep pain,\nAnd wove it tight within a thread of love.\n\nWe cheered the chaos that he dared to speak,\nThe madness dancing on the edge of sense,\nFor in his dark, we found a path so weak,\nThat led us to a strange and sweet defense.\nNo storm could break the rhythm of his rhyme,\nThough winter froze the blood within his veins,\nHe sang until he conquered space and time,\nAnd filled the hollow air with sweet refrains.\n\nBut silence came, a thief without a sound,\nTo steal the breath that fed the rising fire,\nThe final note fell softly to the ground,\nAs life withdrew from out his tired wire.\nNow stillness holds the page where words once grew,\nA quiet tomb for songs that will not cease,\nYet in the void, his legacy breaks through,\nAn endless echo of his wild release.", "He drank the pennorman wine\nand dipped his quill in killing\nof joyous birds\nto hatch such strange\netceteras\nthat grew\nfrom\npage\nto\npage\nlike\nroots\ndig\ndeeper\nthen\nup\nelse\nwent\nhis\nmad\nhair\nwere\nsaid\nby\nall\nwho\npassed\nhim\nout\nloud\nthen\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent", 1, "He walked through alleys where the gas lamps hissed\nAnd turned the grime of London to a symphony\nWhere poverty was dressed in velvet\nAnd every cough became a minor key\nI saw him drinking wine from hollowed skulls\nWhile shouting truths that shook the very floor\nHe painted madness on the library walls\nAnd opened up the closet door\nHis life was not a straight and sunny road\nBut jagged cliffs and oceans full of doubt\nHe dipped his quill in sorrow's heavy load\nAnd pulled all misery and joy out\nThe shadows were his favorite friends\nThey taught him how to laugh at killing time\nHe wove his nightmares into lovely ends\nAnd made his suffering sublime\nThen came the hour when the ink ran dry\nWhen silence fell like snow upon the head\nThe song stopped sudden in the middle cry\nAnd all his brilliant words went dead\nNo more the laughter, nor the angry shout\nTo shake the dust from off the dusty page\nOnly the quiet now surrounds about\nThat ended such a glorious age\nBut still he lives inside the lines he drew\nIn every heart that learned to feel his pain\nHis darkness fed the flowers growing new\nHis death was but the falling of the rain\nThat watered roots which reach far back and wide\nLong after he had taken his last breath\nThere is no tomb where his great spirit hides\nFor he conquered even death\nHis voice returned in every poet who\nStill dares to sing of love and tragic loss\nA fire burning bright and burning true\nDefying all the freezing frost\nHe died but never ceased his singing\nHis work remains a lamp against the night\nA testament to all he ever brought\nFrom darkness back into the light\nWe celebrate the man who loved his art\nWho drank the poison and returned it sweet\nWho held the whole world trembling in his heart\nAnd laid his offering at our feet\nThough silent now his tongue and stilled his hand\nThe music plays on everywhere\nA ghostly beauty visiting the land\nOf those who know he really cared\nHe sang his life and died a martyr\nNot to gods or kings or royal law\nBut to the truth he had to offer\nWhich none have seen or heard before\nHis death silenced the bird\nBut opened all the cages\nLeaving only wonder\nOn these pages\nWhere he lives\nAlways\nHere\nFree\nForever\nSinging\nStill\nAlive\nIn\nAll\nOur\nMinds\nAs\nIf\nHe\nNever\nDied\nAt\nAll\nOnly\nStopped\nTalking\nStarted\nBeing\nEverything\nElse\nThat\nMatters\nMost\nTo\nThose\nWho\nListen\nClose\nEnough\nTo\nHear\nThe\nSpace\nBetween\nThe\nNotes\nWhere\nHe\nRemains\nWhole\nUnbroken\nBright\nBlinding\nWhite\nLight\nIn\nThe\nDark\nRoom\nCalling\nOut\nMy\nName\nOver\nand\nOver\nAgain\nLike\na\nprayer\nthat\nnever\nends\nLike\nlove\nthat\ntranscends\nthe\ngrave\nHe\nis\nnot\ngone\nHe\nhas\nonly\nchanged\nhis\nshape\nfrom\nman\nto\nsong\nfrom\nflesh\nto\nrange\nof\nendless\nhorizon\nwhere\nhis\nspirit\nlives\non\nstrong\nand\nclear\nfor\nall\nwho\ndare\nto\nweep\nor\nlaugh\nor\ncry\nout\nloud\nwhen\nno\none\nelse\nis\nnear\nhe\nwas\nthere\nthen\nhe\nis\nhere\nalways\npresent\nalways\ndear\nhis\nwork\nhis\nlife\nhis\nvery\nbeing\nnow\nour\neternal\ncheering\nsource\nof\njoy\nin\nall\nits\nmany\nforms\nof\npoetic\nutterance\nthat\ntranscends\ntime\nand\nspace\nand\ndeath\nitself\nby\nvirtue\nof\nits\nown\nimmortal\ngrace\nhe\nsang\nhe\ncried\nhe\nloved\nhe\nlived\nhe\ngave\neverything\nhe\nhad\nto\nsave\nhis\nsoul\nfrom\nutter\ndarkness\nby\nbecoming\nlight\nthat\nshines\nmost\nbright\nwhen\nall\nelse\nfails\nto\nhold\nus\nup\nor\ncarry\nthrough\nthe\ncup\nof\nbitter\nwine\nthat\nkills\nbut\nalso\nheals\nthe\nwounds\nthat\notherwise\nwould\nnever\nseal\nbut\nwith\nhis\npen\nhe\nfound\na\nway\nto\npurify\nthe\npain\nof\nday\nby\nnight\nby\ndream\nby\nmemory\nby\nhistory\nby\nstory\ntold\nby", 7, "He spun the twilight from a spider's thread\nAnd taught the heavy heart to laugh at dread\nHis ink was wine that turned the bitter gray\nTo gold before the breaking of the day\nI loved the shadows where his footprints fell\nThe way he mapped the hollows of hell\nNot as a warning but a garden grown\nWhere broken things were tenderly outgrown\nHe drank the sorrow like a vintage rare\nAnd wove the thorns into a crown of air\nHis life a symphony of sharp and sweet\nWhere joy and anguish danced in every beat\nBut then the silence came, a sudden frost\nThat counted up the things he dearly lost\nThe pen grew still, the page remained unturned\nNo more the fire by which our souls were burned\nHis voice is gone, yet in the quiet room\nHis legacy blooms like an enduring bloom\nWe hear him still in every whispered line\nA ghost of rhythm that refuses to decline\nThough death has sealed the lips that sang so true\nThe song lives on because he lived it too\nSo let us raise a glass to all he knew\nEven the dark, even the pain he drew\nFor in his end, his work began to fly\nBeyond the reach of any mortal sky\nThe singer sleeps but never stops his flight\nA star that burns eternal in the night.", 7, "He spun the dust of common days to gold\nAnd found a universe in broken glass,\nHis laughter loud enough to shake the cold\nBefore the winter came to let it pass.\nI loved the fire that burned within his chest\nWhen shadows stretched too long across the floor,\nFor even in his darkest, bleakest rest\nHe wrote the key to open every door.\nThe pain he felt became a symphony\nOf jagged notes that sang of human grace,\nA wild and tender, terrible decree\nThat time could not erase from any face.\nBut then the ink ran dry upon the page\nAnd silence fell where once his voice had rung,\nThe final act of this tragic stage\nLeft only echoes where his song was sung.\nNow death has hushed the throat that spoke so true\nYet still the words remain to guide us home,\nA legacy that lives inside of you\nWherever seeds of his great verses roam.", 7, "I traced the ink that bled from his weary hand,\nWhere shadows stretched to swallow up the light,\nAnd found in every fractured line a land\nMore bright than any dawn could ever write.\nHe walked through storms he painted with a sigh,\nTurning the rust of sorrow into gold,\nA king who ruled beneath a stormy sky,\nWith stories of the broken and the old.\nHis darker hours were not voids to fear,\nBut fertile soil where deeper roots took hold,\nThe music grew more sweet when sharp and near,\nAs winter's bite made summer seem more bold.\nHe sang until the breath began to fade,\nUntil the final note hung in the air,\nA silence now that no one can invade,\nLeaving a ghost of song beyond compare.\nThough death has closed the mouth that spoke so true,\nThe echo lingers in the hollow space,\nFor all the songs he wrote for me and you\nStill paint the world with his enduring grace.", 7, "I trace the ink that stains your trembling hand,\nA map of storms you walked through just to write.\nYou turned the rot within the garden land\nTo silver verses burning in the night.\n\nYour darker hours were not a void to fear,\nBut deep wells where the clearest water rose.\nThe shadows made the light of lines more clear,\nAnd pain became the song you chose to compose.\n\nYou sang of grief as if it were a friend,\nOf broken bones that healed into a rhyme.\nYou stretched the silence out until it bent,\nAnd carved eternity from fleeting time.\n\nBut now the pen is still upon the page,\nThe final stanza fades into the gray.\nThe world has lost its most beloved sage,\nWho taught us how to love the dying day.\n\nThough death has stolen breath and stopped the sound,\nYour voice remains in every word you penned.\nNo silence can make true your song unbound,\nIt lives forever, rising without end.", 7, "I trace the ink that stained your trembling hand,\nA map of storms you charted in the dark.\nYou made the shadows dance across the land,\nAnd turned the ache within into a spark.\n\nYour verses carved the silence into sound,\nWhere broken glass became a chandelier.\nIn every loss, a deeper truth was found,\nAnd fear transformed to something crisp and clear.\n\nEven when grief consumed your weary chest,\nYou spun the thread of sorrow into gold.\nYou gave the wandering spirit perfect rest,\nWith stories that refused to fade or fold.\n\nBut now the final verse is written through,\nThe quill has dropped upon the quiet floor.\nNo melody can rise to break the blue,\nFor you have left us with no song anymore.", 7, "I trace the ink that stains your weathered hand,\nA chaotic script where storms make calm expand.\nYou sang of rot beneath the blooming rose,\nAnd made the shadow give the light its cause.\n\nYour darkest verses write the clearest truth,\nThe unraveling thread within the weave of youth.\nWhen silence crept into the corners deep,\nYou carved a promise for the souls to keep.\n\nOh, how you danced upon the precipice,\nTurning the fracture into pure release.\nUntil the final draft could find no rest,\nAnd laid your weary instrument to chest.\n\nNow quiet fills the room you left so bright,\nYet echoes swell within the fading light.", 6, " rewrite write rewrite write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write", 1], [449, "ultra_held_out", "The Death of Fred Clifton by Lucille Clifton", "Lucille Clifton", "\"A poem about a departing spirit leaving behind worldly memories and being drawn toward a deeper spiritual force beyond the physical world.\"", "I seemed to be drawn\nto the center of myself\nleaving the edges of me\nin the hands of my wife\nand I saw with the most amazing\nclarity\nso that I had not eyes but\nsight,\nand, rising and turning,\nthrough my skin,\nthere was all around not the\nshapes of things\nbut oh, at last, the", "The heavy cloak of flesh begins to fade\nAs echoes of the marketplace grow thin\nI leave behind the laughter and the shade\nOf gardens where I once began to spin\n\nThe clockwork heart that beat against my ribs\nNow slows its rhythm in a silent room\nNo longer bound by hunger or by nibs\nOf time that carved its lines within the gloom\n\nA current pulls, invisible and deep\nBeyond the stars that watch from distant skies\nIt calls the wandering soul to fall asleep\nIn waters where no mortal eye can rise\n\nThe memories dissolve like mist at dawn\nThe names I knew are lost upon the breeze\nThe thread is cut, the tether finally gone\nTo join the vast and ancient symphonies", "The_EDGE\nof hair \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The heavy cloak of skin slips from the bone\nAs years of laughter and of pain grow thin\nThe taste of wine, the texture of a stone\nBegin to lose their sharp and binding kin\nA memory of summer in a room\nFades like a scent on suddenly still air\nWhile shadows stretch and seem about to bloom\nFrom somewhere far beyond all visible care\nNo longer drawn by hunger or by thirst\nOr by the frantic beating of the heart\nBut by a current moving from the first\nTo where all things return and never part\nIt pulls with silence loud as crashing seas\nInvoking all that lives when sight is done\nWhere spirit drinks of such great mysteries\nThat none who entered ever came undone\nAway from edges defined by edge and wall\nToward the source where all beginnings lie\nListening closely for the distant call\nThat bids the dreaming soul awake and fly\nLeaving the map behind the hand once drew\nEntering depths no language e'er could hold\nFinding a home in skies of endless blue\nWhere stories end and ancient truths are told\nThe body sleeps but he begins his flight\nDrawn inward past the stars and outward far\nBathed in a radiant and unseen light\nReturning home to whom we always were\nNo more a guest among the transient things\nBut one who knows the secret of the whole\nWho hears the song that every spirit sings\nWhen earth returns its borrowed dust to soil\nAnd only love remains to guide the way\nOut of the twilight and into the day\nThat has no night nor any coming dawn\nOnly the breath of God all life had drawn\nAll longing satisfied in sudden peace\nWhere sorrow finds an end and wars must cease\nOne last look back at all the things he knew\nThen letting go of everything he was\nTo plunge headfirst in waters bright and new\nWhere self dissolves in luminous surprise\nOpened at last to all-encompassing eyes\nThat see him not as man or woman dead\nBut as a note returned to Godhead\nSwept up and lifted by the loving wind\nLeaving the world he loved but cannot win\nBack to the Source from which he fell away\nTo live again in everlasting day\nNot as he was but as he always meant\nReturned to joy that never comes to rent\nThe door swings shut on rooms of wood and clay\nHe walks out naked through the gates of gray\nInto the white and wonderous unknown\nWhere he was never really all alone\nFor all along the force he sought was near\nCalling him home through every passing year\nNow he arrives to hear it clearly said\nYou were not lost you were but growing dead\nTo all that killed your inner fire\nBefore returning to the great Desire\nThat burns without consuming all\nDrawing him in from everywhere\nThere is no other anywhere\nOnly this One\nOnly This\nHome\nAt last\nHome\nAgain\nIn\nLove\nAlways\nIn\nLove\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways", 7, "The heavy cloak of bone falls from my shoulders\nLeaving the dust of years to settle on the floor\nI watch the photographs and letters blur\nAs names and dates dissolve like morning dew\nNo longer bound by hunger or by grief\nThe sharp edges of sorrow lose their sting\nA silent current pulls me upward now\nThrough walls of air and light that have no weight\nBeyond the reach of hands that seek to hold\nA vast and ancient rhythm calls my name\nNot as a voice but as a sudden knowing\nTo leave the shell behind and drift away\nInto the deep where all things are one breath\nWhere memory is not a chain but open sky\nAnd I am free to be the wind itself\nReturning home to where the source begins\nWithout a sound the door swings wide and shut\nAnd I am gone, yet everywhere remain\nIn every star that burns beyond the dark\nIn every pulse of life that starts anew\nThe world remains but I have passed through it\nDrawn by the gravity of purest love\nTo sleep within the arms of endless peace\nWhere time has stopped and nothing ever ends\nOnly the light remains to guide the way\nAnd in that light I find who I truly am\nNot what was lost but all that waits ahead\nA spirit rising from the ash of self\nTo join the song that never stops its singing\nForever held within the great unknown\nWhere every ending is a new beginning\nAnd I am home before I even know\nThat I have traveled far from where I started\nBack to the silence from which all sounds arise\nBack to the stillness where the heart beats true\nAway from shadows and the weight of days\nToward the dawn that never fades or fails\nWhere memory dissolves into the whole\nAnd I am part of everything at last\nFree from the grip of earth and all its cares\nSwept up by currents of a deeper grace\nTo float upon the ocean of the soul\nWhere nothing dies and nothing is forgotten\nBut all is changed and purified by fire\nOf love that burns without consuming heat\nAnd draws the wanderer back to source\nAcross the veil of matter and of mind\nInto the mystery that holds us all\nWhere I am none and yet I am the all\nReleased at last from every earthly tie\nTo dwell forever in the radiant void\nWhere spirit meets the spirit face to face\nAnd knows itself as part of infinite\nNo longer searching for a place to rest\nFor I have found the ground of being here\nIn this great silence that surrounds the stars\nAnd in the quiet space between two thoughts\nWhere God and man are one and indistinguishable\nThe journey ends where it had always been\nWithin the heart of all that ever was\nAnd all that will be when the world grows old\nI go to meet the face I knew before\nBefore the body formed and named the self\nBefore the tears were shed and wounds were made\nI return to the source of all my pain and joy\nTo be absorbed in waves of golden light\nThat wash away the stains of mortal life\nAnd leave me clean and bright and wholly new\nReady to live again in different forms\nOr simply be the stillness in the storm\nWhatever comes next I am prepared\nFor I have learned the secret of release\nTo let go of the hand that clings so tight\nAnd trust the river to carry me along\nDown to the sea where all the rivers end\nAnd there to lose myself in something greater\nSomething older than the stars themselves\nSomething that loves me more than I can say\nEven when I cannot hear its voice\nIt calls my name with every falling leaf\nWith every breath I take and every sigh\nUntil the moment comes to let it all go\nTo step across the threshold of the grave\nNot as a death but as a birth of sorts\nInto a life that has no start or end\nJust endless motion in a perfect dance\nAround the center of all things divine\nWhere I belong and always have belonged\nWaiting for me since the first day of time\nNow that the waiting is finally over\nNow that the longing finds its full reward\nI walk toward the light that never dims\nAnd leave the darkness of the past behind\nTo enter realms where wonder never sleeps\nAnd every dream becomes a living truth\nWhere I am loved beyond all understanding\nAnd known completely by the One who sees\nAll secrets hidden in the deepest well\nAll questions answered in a single glance\nAll sorrows healed by touch of unseen hands\nThat lift me up and set my feet on clouds\nAbove the world of struggle and of strife\nWhere I am safe and sheltered and secure\nFrom every fear that haunted me below\nFrom every doubt that clouded up my sight\nFrom every lie that told me I was small\nHere I am large enough to hold the universe\nHere I am strong enough to bear the weight\nOf all the love that ever was poured out\nOn those who walked the path of loss and gain\nI", 7, "The heavy cloak of flesh begins to fade\nAs echoes of the marketplace grow thin\nI leave behind the laughter and the shade\nOf all the names I knew and all my kin\n\nThe clock that ticked so loudly in the hall\nNow slows its rhythm to a silent beat\nThe walls that held me in their solid wall\nDissolve beneath the rising, golden heat\n\nNo longer bound by hunger or by fear\nBy debts unpaid or promises unkept\nI feel a pull that draws the spirit near\nWhere ancient, quiet tides have softly swept\n\nA current calls from depths beyond the sight\nTo wash away the dust of years and pain\nTo merge with light that burns without a fire\nAnd find the peace that waits beyond the rain", 7, "The heavy coat of skin falls soft to earth\nAs dust returns to dust and bone to clay\nI leave the echo of a laughter's mirth\nAnd let the fading light of day give way\n\nNo longer bound by clocks or ticking gears\nOr maps that chart the paths we used to tread\nThe scent of rain on pavement disappears\nAs words once spoken drift like smoke and red\n\nA pull begins within the silent chest\nNot gravity but something far more deep\nIt calls beyond the reach of human rest\nTo wake the soul from its long, heavy sleep\n\nThe tether snaps with soundless, gentle grace\nAs memory dissolves into the blue\nI turn my face toward the vast embrace\nOf forces waiting there to make me new", 7, "The heavy cloak of flesh falls soft to dust\nAs chains of gold and iron turn to mist\nI leave the echo of a lover's name\nThe taste of salt, the heat of summer rain\n\nNo longer bound by clocks that tick too loud\nOr shadows cast beneath a clouded shroud\nThe memories dissolve like morning fog\nUpon the threshold of a distant log\n\nA pull begins within the silent deep\nWhere ancient rhythms wake from endless sleep\nNot light as eyes have known on earthly ground\nBut something vast where lost souls are unbound\n\nThe gravity of stars draws me away\nBeyond the final edge of night and day\nI drift toward the pulse that beats alone\nTo merge with silence in a throne unknown", 6, "The heavy cloak of flesh grows thin and cold\nAs echoes of the marketplace fade out\nThe names I spoke, the promises I told\nDissolve into a silence without doubt\n\nI leave behind the sun-warmed stone and dust\nThe tangled roots of love and fear and pride\nThe rusted keys to chambers made of trust\nAre cast aside where shadows cannot hide\n\nA pull begins beneath the veil of night\nNot gravity but something vast and deep\nIt draws me past the stars that burn so bright\nInto the quiet where the waking sleep\n\nNo longer bound by time's relentless thread\nI float toward the hum beyond the sound\nWhere every scattered thought is gathered red\nAnd lost in light, no separate self is found", 7, "The thread that tied me to this breathing stone\nIs slowly fraying in the quiet air,\nAnd now I float above the flesh and bone,\nWith weightlessness replacing deep despair.\n\nI watch the echoes fade of whispered names,\nOf tangled threads I spun within my chest,\nThe sunlit rooms now turn into pure frames,\nWhile heavy chains dissolve into a rest.\n\nA pull begins beneath the veil so thin,\nBeyond the mist where shadows used to dwell,\nNo mirror holds the face I wore within,\nJust vast expansion waiting to unravel.\n\nSo let the memories rust upon the shore,\nFor I am called to depths without an end,\nTo join the silence rising ever more,\nUntil the separate self can make amend.", 7, "The rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [451, "ultra_held_out", "An Army Corps on the March by Walt Whitman", "Walt Whitman", "\"A poem about an exhausted yet nationalistically vigorous army corps toiling forward through dust, marching inevitably onward towards victory.\"", "With its cloud of skirmishers in advance,\nWith now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip, and now an irregular volley,\nThe swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on,\nGlittering dimly, toiling under the sun\u2014the dust-cover'd men,\nIn columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground,\nWith artillery interspers'd\u2014the wheels rumble, the horses sweat,\nAs the army corps advances.", "Their boots are heavy with the weight of miles,\nYet in their chests a fire refuses to die.\nThe dust rises like a brown and choking shroud,\nBut they march on, a single, breathing crowd.\n\nEach step is pain, each breath a ragged sound,\nYet glory pulls them forward from the ground.\nThey do not speak of home or soft repose,\nOnly the flag that snaps against the breeze.\n\nThrough grit and grime, the rhythm never breaks,\nA steel resolve for every nation's sake.\nThough eyelids burn and shoulders sag with strain,\nThey push ahead through sun and pouring rain.\n\nNo fatigue can halt this tide of will,\nFor victory waits upon the distant hill.\nOnward they go, a wall of flesh and bone,\nTo claim the land that they have made their own.", "Boots crush gravel in a \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "Boots pound the grit that tastes of ancient iron\nWhile lungs heave clouds of pale and choking dust\nEach step a prayer to gods of home and borders\nWhere glory waits beyond the barren gust\nTheir backs are bent but spirits burn unbroken\nBy heat that fries the hair and stings the eye\nThey march as one great beast of blood and bone\nWith victory singing in their patriotic cry\nNo weight of death can halt this rolling tide\nOf flags snapped sharp against the burning air\nThe nation lives in every trembling stride\nAs conquest draws them nearer everywhere\nTired hands still grip the steel with killing zeal\nAnd feet that drag yet drive the frontward line\nThey know the triumph only time will seal\nIn fields where roots of liberty shall pine\nOnward they go through ash and setting sun\nTo plant the laurel on the conquered hill\nThe work is hard but none have stopped or shunned\nTheir duty calls and none have asked it ill\nForward through dust towards the shining prize\nWhere history records their stubborn way\nA nation watching with admiring eyes\nAs these strong sons secure another day\nThey fall not back nor falter in their course\nBut push the earth aside with sheer desire\nTo reach the edge of triumph and its source\nAnd set the whole exhausted world on fire\nOnward to win\nOnward to be\nOne marching heart\nSet utterly free\nIn dust and heat\nThe spirit stands\nOver all\nThese working hands\nAdvance\nAdvance\nAdvance\nAlways\nAlways\nAlways\nHome\nHome\nHome\nVictory\nComing\nSoon\nSee\nHow\nFar\nWe\nGo\nOnly\nForward\nNever\nBack\nDust\nSets\nDown\nBlood\nWets\nSweat\nGlory\nCalls\nOut\nLoud\nClear\nStrong\nSure\nWin\nWin\nWin\nNow\nThen\nEver\nMore\nOn\nOn\nOn\nEnd\nNot\nStart\nBegin\nAgain\nNext\nStep\nFirst\nLast\nAll\nNone\nSome\nMany\nOne\nWhole\nPart\nEdge\nLine\nFront\nBack\nSide\nUp\nDown\nLeft\nRight\nNorth\nSouth\nEast\nWest\nCenter\nHeart\nSoul\nMind\nBody\nSpirit\nLife\nDeath\nBirth\nGrowth\nJoy\nSorrow\nHope\nFear\nLove\nHate\nWar\nPeace\nBattle\nTruce\nSiege\nFall\nRise\nStand\nSit\nRun\nWalk\nMarch\nMove\nStill\nQuick\nSlow\nHard\nSoft\nHot\nCold\nDry\nWet\nBright\nDark\nBlind\nSee\nHear\nListen\nSpeak\nTalk\nShout\nWhisper\nScream\nCry\nLaugh\nSmile\nFrown\nLook\nWatch\nStare\nGaze\nView\nScan\nSearch\nFind\nLose\nHave\nGet\nTake\nLeave\nStay\nGo\nCome\nEnter\nExit\nOpen\nClose\nLock\nKey\nDoor\nWall\nGate\nRoad\nPath\nWay\nTrack\nTrail\nFoot\nHand\nArm\nLeg\nHead\nEye\nNose\nMouth\nEar\nSkin\nHair\nBone\nBlood\nFlesh\nHeart\nLiver\nKidney\nLung\nBrain\nThought\nDream\nNight\nDay\nSun\nMoon\nStar\nSky\nEarth\nWater\nFire\nWind\nAir\nSpace\nTime\nMoment\nSecond\nMinute\nHour\nYear\nCentury\nMillennium\nAge\nEra\nEpoch\nPeriod\nSeason\nSpring\nSummer\nAutumn\nWinter\nPlant\nTree\nFlower\nGrass\nLeaf\nRoot\nSeed\nFruit\nBerry\nNut\nBean\nGrain\nWheat\nBarley\nOats\nRice\nCorn\nHay\nStraw\nWood\nTwig\nBranch\nTrunk\nBark\nSap\nLeaf\nPetal\nStem\nThorn\nPrick\nSharp\nBlunt\nFlat\nRound\nSquare\nTriangle\nCircle\nLine\nDot\nPoint\nEdge\nCorner\nAngle\nSize\nBig\nSmall\nLarge\nTiny\nHuge\nMassive\nGiant\nLittle\nMini\nMax\nTop\nBottom\nMiddle\nCenter\nEdge\nBorder\nBoundary\nLimit\nRange\nScope\nScale\nMeasure\nWeight\nLoad\nBurden\nBag\nSatchel\nKit\nKit\nBag\nCase\nBox\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin\nBin", 6, "Their boots are heavy with the weight of home\nYet every step drives deeper in the dust\nThe banners flap like hearts that will not break\nThrough choking clouds of red and burning thirst\nNo man looks back at shadows left behind\nBut only forward where the triumph waits\nA river forged from iron and from bone\nThat sweeps away all doubt and all defeats\nThe sun may blister skin to cracked earth tones\nBut glory burns more fiercely in their eyes\nThey march as one great beast of living steel\nTo crush the night and seize the morning light\nThough lungs may burn and legs may fail to hold\nThe spirit of the nation lifts them high\nOnward they go through sand and sweat and pain\nUnstoppable and certain of the prize\nFor victory is not a distant dream\nBut something marching now beside their feet\nIt waits beyond the ridge of endless road\nWhere flags unfurl in winds of pure delight\nAnd history records this final stride\nAs men who walked through hell to claim the dawn", 7, "Their boots are heavy with the weight of years\nYet in their chests a single fire burns bright\nA sea of dust that swallows up their tears\nAs they march forward through the dying light\n\nNo voice is raised to ask for rest or bread\nFor glory calls from lands beyond the hill\nThey drag their limbs where weary feet have led\nWith iron will and unrelenting skill\n\nThe flag above is tattered, torn, and gray\nBut still it snaps against the choking air\nIt speaks of home and of a brighter day\nOf sacred soil that only they can bear\n\nThough lungs are burning and the vision blurs\nThey push ahead against the rising sand\nTo silence all the doubt and all the fears\nAnd plant their triumph on the conquered land\n\nOnward they go with step that never breaks\nThrough dust and blood and night that has no end\nUntil the final victory awakes\nAnd history bends to them as friends", 7, "Boots grind deep in the choking red dust\nWhere the sun bleeds white and the air turns to stone\nYet the chest heaves high with a fire that must\nBurn brighter than heat, though the flesh feels alone.\n\nWe are sons of the soil, we are steel of the state\nThough our eyelids are heavy and throats taste of sand\nThere is no retreat for the hand or the gate\nOf this march forged in blood by a sovereign hand.\n\nThe banner snaps taut in the wind of our breath\nA promise of glory that mocks at the grave\nWe walk through the silence that follows near death\nTo carve out a future the ancestors crave.\n\nTired limbs swing forward with rhythm of old\nDriven by pride that will not let us cease\nA story of triumph to be fully told\nIn the thunderous roar of our unending peace.\n\nOnward we stumble, a tide against night\nWith the flag as our beacon, the nation our guide\nWe do not fear dawn, nor the coming of light\nFor the victory waits where the exhausted abide.", 7, "Boots grind deep in the choking red dust\nWhere lungs burn with the fire of a thousand suns\nYet the chest swells with a pride that will not break\nAs the banner snaps above the weary line.\n\nLegs like iron, heavy as the mountain stone\nBut the spirit is a river rushing to the sea\nFor every step is a vow to the soil beneath\nAnd every breath a hymn to the coming dawn.\n\nThe road stretches long through the haze of heat\nBut the eyes see only the flag unfurled ahead\nNo fatigue can hold this tide of one true name\nNo shadow dim the glory waiting past the hill.\n\nOnward they march through the grit and the glare\nA single heart beating within a thousand frames\nDriven by love for the land and the cause so pure\nToward the inevitable triumph that awaits.", 7, "The sun beats down upon the rusted steel,\nAnd dust coats every weary, sweat-streaked face.\nTheir boots have lost the rhythm of the reel,\nYet still they carve a path through this dry place.\n\nNo rest is found beneath the scorching sky,\nFor glory calls with voice both loud and deep.\nThey do not ask for mercy as they die,\nBut march where ancient oaths compel them keep.\n\nA nation's breath is in their ragged chest,\nOne heartbeat thrumming through the heavy line.\nThey leave behind the shadows of their rest,\nTo make the distant horizon truly shine.\n\nThough lungs burn tight and legs are turning lead,\nThe flag ahead waves high above the haze.\nThey walk until the final foe is dead,\nAnd turn the darkest night into bright days.", 7, "Legs turn to lead beneath the rising sun,\nYet pride within the chest beats like a drum.\nThrough choking dust that coats the parched and dry,\nThe corps drags forward with a weary sigh.\n\nNo flag is clean, no uniform remains untarnished,\nBut every rag reflects what we have earned.\nWe stumble on, though eyes are red with sleep,\nFor this vast land is ours alone to keep.\n\nThe ground resists, the heat distorts the air,\nBut willpower binds us tight beyond compare.\nA single thread of fate woven so deep,\nThat make us rise while others choose to sleep.\n\nForward we march, through shadow into light,\nUntil the final foe is put to flight.\nExhaustion fades before the cause so true,\nAnd victory awaits for me and you.", 7, "Legs rewrite reform rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [453, "train", "The force that through the green fuse drives the flower by Dylan Thomas", "Dylan Thomas", "A poem about a speaker comparing himself to other forms of life, exploring a powerful force that drives and destroys the natural world, while remaining unable to communicate with or understand the nature of time.", "The force that through the green fuse drives the flower\nDrives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees\nIs my destroyer.\nAnd I am dumb to tell the crooked rose\nMy youth is bent by the same wintry fever.\n\nThe force that drives the water through the rocks\nDrives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams\nTurns mine to wax.\nAnd I am dumb to mouth unto my veins\nHow at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.\n\nThe hand that whirls the water in the pool\nStirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind\nHauls my shroud sail.\nAnd I am dumb to tell the hanging man\nHow of my clay is made the hangman's lime.\n\nThe lips of time leech to the fountain head;\nLove drips and gathers, but the fallen blood\nShall calm her sores.\nAnd I am dumb to tell a weather's wind\nHow time has ticked a heaven round the stars.\n\nAnd I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb\nHow at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.", "I am not the wolf that hunts by scent and sound,\nNor the oak that drinks the rain and knows the ground.\nThe river rushes with a purpose I cannot name,\nA fire that burns the forest yet remains the same.\nIt drives the tide to crush the shell upon the sand,\nIt breaks the bone of mountains held within its hand.\nThis force is in the beating of my own small chest,\nYet it will tear me down and leave me with no rest.\n\nI watch the seasons turn like wheels I cannot stop,\nWhile time flows past me like a deep and endless drop.\nI try to speak to minutes, to ask where they have gone,\nBut silence answers back before the break of dawn.\nThe bird understands the wind, the fish the ocean's deep,\nBut I am left alone while all the world asleeps.\nNo voice can reach the hour, no ear can hear the year,\nJust this relentless motion that makes the future clear.\n\nIt builds the coral reef and then dissolves the stone,\nIt leaves me standing here, entirely on my own.\nA creature made of moments I cannot hold or keep,\nWatching the great destruction while the others sleep.\nI do not know the beginning, nor the final end,\nOnly the driving power that pulls us round again.", "The bear knows winter coming\nby the hair growing long\nwhile I \u2013\nwho have studied \u2013\nonly know\nthat years\nhave passed\nbut not\nwhy\nor\nwhere\nwent\nlast\nTuesday\nthen\nwent\nnext\nMonday\nall\nof\nit\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013\n\u2013", 1, "The wolf knows hunger and the killing snow\nwhile I stand watching seasons come and go\nunable to ask why the river runs\nor how the autumn leaf outlasts the sun\nthe great force drives the bear and kills the bee\nit spins the earth and sets the spirit free\nthen crushes mountains back to dust and bone\nand leaves a hollow silence all its own\nyet when I reach to grasp the passing hour\ntime slips away like water from a flower\nno tongue can speak of days or years or dates\nto those who live behind these iron gates\nI see the bird that flies but not the why\nof clouds that gather in a sudden sky\nthe force remains a deaf and blind command\nthat sweeps the living off the barren land\nbut none among the roots or teeth or hair\ncan hear the ticking of the air\nnor know if moments stretch or sharply bend\nbefore they reach their inevitable end\nI am the witness with no voice to cry\nas all things rush toward a different lie\nthe beast understands the tooth, the root\nbut none of us have seen the actual fruit\nof time itself\nor learned to say\nwhy yesterday\nmust kill today\nand why\nwe cannot\nstay\nor\nknow\nthe\nway\nthat\ngo\naway\nfrom\nall\nwe\nknow\nof\nnow\nor\nthen\nor\nhow\nit\nstarts\nor\nends\nagain\nand\nagain\nand\nnever\nend\nor\nbegin\nat\nall\njust\nrush\ndown\nsome\ndark\nand\nsilent\nhall\nwhere\nnone\nof\nus\nhave\nears\nto\nhear\nthe\nsecret\nof\nthe\npassing\nyear\nor\nwhy\nthe\nclock\nwill\nnot\nbe\nstopped\nby\nprayer\nor\nwhy\nour\nhearts\nmust\nalways\nskip\na\nbeat\nwhen\ntime\ncomes\nnear\nto\nkill\nus\nwith\nits\nfeet\nthat\ntap\nupon\nthe\nedge\nof\nbeing\nthere\nwhile\nlife\nis\nstill\nquite\nrich\nand\nvery\nrare\nbut\ncannot\nsee\nthe\nhands\nthat\nmove\nthe\nwheel\nor\nunderstand\nthe\nreason\nfor\nour\nsteal\nof\nevery\nnext\nfrom\nout\nof\npast\ncontrol\nthat\ndrives\nus\nmad\nand\nkills\nour\nvery\nsoul\nwith\nforce\nunseen\nby\nwolf\nor\nbird\nor\ntree\nthat\ntakes\nfrom\nall\nand\ngives\nback\nonly\nme\nwho\nstands\nalone\nand\nasks\nin\nvain\nto\nknow\nwhy\ndays\nmust\nfollow\nafter\npain\nand\nwhy\nno\nlanguage\nworks\nto\nbridge\nthe\nspace\nbetween\nthe\nstart\nand\nend\nof\nany\nplace\nwhere\ntime\nexists\nbut\nnone\ncan\ntruly\nsay\nif\nminutes\nlive\nor\nhours\nslip\naway\ninto\nthe\nvoid\nthat\nswallows\nup\nthe\nsound\nof\neverything\nthat\never\nwas\nor\nfound\nby\nthose\nwho\nsearch\nfor\nanswers\nin\nthe\ndark\nand\nmiss\nthe\nflame\nthat\nstarted\nall\nthe\nspark\nthat\nburns\nand\ndies\nand\nreturns\nonce\nmore\nto\nkill\nthe\nliving\non\nthe\nfar\nshore\nof\nnow\nwhere\nnone\nof\nus\nhave\nears\nto\nhear\nthe\nsecret\nof\nthe\npassing\nyear\nor\nwhy\nthe\nclock\nwill\nnot\nbe\nstopped\nby\nprayer\nor\nwhy\nour\nhearts\nmust\nalways\nskip\na\nbeat\nwhen\ntime\ncomes\nnear\nto\nkill\nus\nwith\nits\nfeet\nthat\ntap\nupon\nthe\nedge\nof\nbeing\nthere\nwhile\nlife\nis\nstill\nquite\nrich\nand\nvery\nrare\nbut\ncannot\nsee\nthe\nhands\nthat\nmove\nthe\nwheel\nor\nunderstand\nthe\nreason\nfor\nour\nsteal\nof\nevery\nnext\nfrom\nout\nof\npast\ncontrol\nthat\ndrives\nus\nmad\nand\nkills\nour\nvery\nsoul\nwith\nforce\nunseen\nby\nwolf\nor\nbird\nor\ntree\nthat\ntakes\nfrom\nall\nand\ngives\nback\nonly\nme\nwho\nstands\nalone\nand\nasks\nin\nvain\nto\nknow\nwhy\ndays\nmust\nfollow\nafter\npain\n", 5, "I am not the wolf that hunts by hunger\nnor the root that drinks the silent rain\nbut something caught between the breath and bone\nthat watches seasons burn without a name\nthere is a fire that feeds on all it touches\nit turns the mountain to a pile of dust\nand makes the ocean forget its ancient depth\nyet I cannot ask it why it moves\nor how it knows the hour before it comes\nthe river rushes past my frozen feet\ncarrying years I cannot hold or speak\nto creatures who have never known a clock\nwhile I stand here with empty hands\ntrying to hear the ticking of the world\nbut only silence answers back\nas time itself slips through a wall I cannot see\ndestroying everything it ever loved\nwithout a sound or reason I can grasp\njust driving forward through the ruin\nleaving me behind in broken pieces\nunable to say when it began\nor if it will ever end at all", 6, "I am not the wolf who hunts by scent\nnor the hawk that maps the wind with silent wings,\nfor I lack the instinct to know when winter comes\nor the root's deep memory of rain.\nThere is a current in the blood of all things\nthat pulls the river down and burns the forest bright,\na force that builds the mountain stone by stone\nthen grinds it back to dust without a sound.\nIt drives the beetle through the rotting log\nand snaps the ancient oak as if it were a twig,\nyet I stand here watching seasons turn\nunable to speak its name or feel its weight.\nTime moves like water through my open hands\nbut I cannot catch a single drop to hold,\ncannot ask the clock why it ticks backward now\nor why the future waits behind a locked door.\nThe bird knows morning before the light arrives,\nthe fish knows depth before the surface breaks,\nbut I am lost between the breath and death\nblind to the rhythm that destroys and saves.", 6, "I am not the oak that drinks the centuries\nNor the mayfly that knows only noon,\nI stand between the root and the wing\nWatching a force that bends the moon.\n\nIt is the fire that feeds the forest floor\nThen turns the mountain into dust,\nA hunger that builds and breaks in one breath\nDriven by a need I cannot trust.\n\nThe river rushes past my frozen feet\nBut I cannot ask it where it goes,\nFor time is a wall I walk against\nWith no voice to speak of what I know.\n\nThe wolf howls at the turning year\nAnd understands the shifting cold,\nBut I am trapped in this silent now\nWhere stories start and end untold.\n\nThe tide pulls back the ancient sand\nYet leaves no message for my hand,\nThis power rips the world apart\nWhile I remain unable to understand.", 6, "I am not the oak that drinks the rain\nnor the wolf that knows the scent of winter's end,\nfor they move with a rhythm I cannot name,\na pulse that beats beneath the stone and skin.\n\nThere is a fire that feeds on root and wing,\nthat turns the mountain to a pile of dust,\nit builds the coral reef then swallows it,\na hunger vast as silence, cold as rust.\n\nIt drives the river toward the waiting sea,\nit strips the forest bare in moments bright,\nyet when I try to speak its true decree,\nmy voice dissolves into the endless night.\n\nThe clock ticks loud within my hollow chest,\nbut time itself remains a locked door deep,\nI watch the seasons come and go to rest,\nwhile secrets of the hour I cannot keep.\n\nThe bird understands the turning of the light,\nthe fish obeys the tide without a word,\nbut I am left alone inside the night,\nby forces heard but never truly heard.", 6, "I am not the wolf that hunts by scent and moon,\nNor is my blood the river's rushing song,\nFor I possess a fire that consumes too soon,\nA force that makes the ancient forests wrong.\n\nIt drives the tide to crush the coral reef,\nIt builds the mountain only to erode,\nA silent engine of relentless grief,\nThat turns the fertile field into a road.\n\nThe eagle sees the season turn above,\nThe seed knows when to break within the dark,\nBut I am blind to this revolving love,\nAnd cannot find the spark or keep the mark.\n\nTime is a wall I run against in fear,\nA clock without a face, a hand without a sound,\nI scream to make the endless moment clear,\nBut silence is the only thing I've found.", 6, "I am not the oak that drinks the centuries,\nNor the moth that dances until wings dissolve.\nThe river does not pause to explain its carve,\nAnd the fire does not write upon the stone.\n\nA wind is moving through the canyon deep,\nIt breaks the dam and builds the mountain peak.\nIt spins the seed into a forest crown,\nThen turns the green to rust within an hour.\n\nI stand beneath this tide of make and break,\nWith lungs too small to breathe the ancient draft.\nI cannot speak the grammar of the sun,\nOr write a word for what will fade tomorrow.\n\nMy clock is made of ticking flesh and fear,\nWhile time is just a vast and silent hum.", 6, "I rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [457, "ultra_held_out", "The Messages by Wilfid Wilson Gibson", "Wilfrid Wilson Gibson", "\"A poem about a soldier repeating the stories of dying men over and over, never quite recounting their final messages, as his mind unravels under the weight of war's horrors.\"", "\u201cI cannot quite remember.... There were five\nDropt dead beside me in the trench\u2014and three\nWhispered their dying messages to me....\u201d\n\nBack from the trenches, more dead than alive,\nStone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken knee,\nHe hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly:\n\n\u201cI cannot quite remember.... There were five\nDropt dead beside me in the trench, and three\nWhispered their dying messages to me....\n\n\u201cTheir friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive\u2014\nWaiting a word in silence patiently....\nBut what they said, or who their friends may be\n\n\u201cI cannot quite remember.... There where five\nDropt dead beside me in the trench\u2014and three\nWhispered their dying messages to me....\u201d", "The trench is full of voices that never end\nI open my mouth to tell you what they said\nBut the words turn to ash before they leave my tongue\nA mother's name dissolves into the mud\nI try again, the story starts the same\nHe held a letter tight against his chest\nAnd whispered something soft about the rain\nBut now I only hear the static in my head\nThe final line escapes me like a ghost\nIt slips between my fingers and the dirt\nI swear I know it, swear I heard it clear\nYet when I speak, the sentence breaks apart\nAnother man falls down beside the wall\nHis eyes are wide with questions I can't answer\nHe reaches out for hands that aren't there anymore\nAnd I begin the tale I've told a thousand times\nAbout the boy who wanted to go home\nBut every time I reach the very end\nThe memory fractures, cracks, and fades away\nThe message dies inside the hollow space\nBetween the thunder and the beating heart\nI scream the start of stories over and over\nBut never reach the part where they say goodbye\nThe horror builds a wall around my mind\nAnd keeps the truth locked deep within the dark\nSo I repeat the first half of their lives\nWhile the last words rot beneath the heavy sky", "He opened his mouth\nand tasted ash\nthen said Thomas killed\nby Edward killing Thomas\nsaid Edward killed\nby Edward killing Edward\nbut Edward had asked about\nabout his hair\nabout hair\nEdward killed Edward killing Edward\nThomas killed Thomas killing Thomas\nwent Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing", 1, "He opens his mouth to say she loved him\nbut the words are ash and he tastes only iron\nthen he starts again\nshe had a picture in her pocket\nno she said the trench was full of water\nhis hands shake as he counts the days\nthat were not days but hours of screaming\nhe tries to reach for the last breath\nthe one that slipped between his teeth\nbut it gets stuck\nlike a bone in a wet throat\nover and over\nshe asked about the spring\nor did she ask if he saw God\nit matters less\nbecause he cannot quite say\nthat he saw nothing\nonly the grey\nand the way the light died\nnot quite saying\nnot quite remembering\njust the motion\nof opening\nopening\nalways opening\nto a silence\nthat never answers\nnever\nnever\nnever\ncomes back\nfrom where he went\nto fetch their voices\nand finds\nonly his own\nshattering\nagain\nagain\nagain\nin the dark\nwhere the stories\nend\nbefore\nthey\nbegin\nonce\nmore\nfor\nwho\nknows\nhow\nmany\ntimes\nnow\nthat\ntime\nhas\nstopped\nmoving\nforward\nonly\nback\ninto\nthe\nmud\nwhere\ntheir\neyes\nwere\nwide\nand\nasking\nasking\nasking\nhim\nto\nsay\nit\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\nit\nall\nsaid\n", 1, "He opens his mouth to say the name\nbut only dust comes out\na dry rattle like boots on gravel\nhe tries again for Thomas\nwho begged for a letter never sent\nbut the words slip sideways\ntwisted by the smoke and the shouting\nThomas said something about the light\nor perhaps it was the cold\nthe soldier shakes his head\nthe memory is a wet wool blanket\nheavy and smelling of iron\nhe starts over\nhe says the man wanted water\nno, he wanted his mother\nno, he wanted the sky to stop falling\nthe story loops and knots\ntangling in the throat\nevery time he speaks the end\nit vanishes before the period\nleaving only the gasp\nthe sudden silence\nand the terrible weight\nof things that were almost said\nbut died with him\nso he tells it again\nand again\nchoking on the unsaid\nwhile the faces blur\ninto one long scream\nthat never quite reaches\nthe other side of his lips", 2, "He starts with the boy from Ohio\nwho said the sky was falling down\nbut stops before he says what fell\nand only sees the dust again\nthe boy's lips moving in the mud\nsaying something about a mother\nor maybe just the sound of rain\nhe tries to catch the final breath\nthat slipped away between the teeth\nbut finds only a hollow space\nwhere words should be and never were\nthen comes the man with the broken arm\nwho whispered of a silver ring\nbut the soldier forgets the name\nand lets the story start anew\nabout the ring that wasn't there\nabout a promise left unsaid\nhis hands are shaking on the page\nas if he holds a dying hand\nthat squeezes tight then goes slack\nand every time he opens his mouth\nto speak the truth of how they died\nthe words dissolve like smoke in wind\nleaving him screaming at the wall\nwith stories that have no end\njust fragments of a final plea\nthat rot inside his weary head\nover and over he begins\nto tell them how they passed away\nbut never reaches the last word\nnever tells us what they meant\nonly the horror of the wait\nonly the silence of the grave\nthat lives inside his trembling voice\nrepeating ghosts who cannot speak\nwhile his own mind tears itself apart\ntrying to hold the things they said\nthat were never really said at all\njust echoes bouncing off the stone\nof a heart that broke too long ago\nhe starts again with the boy from Ohio\nwho said the sky was falling down\nbut stops before he says what fell\nand only sees the dust again", 2, "He walks the trench and speaks to walls of mud\nThe words are heavy, thick with rust and blood\nA boy from Kent who said he saw a light\nBut then the sentence breaks into the night\nAnd starts again, the same old trembling sound\nOf promises that never could be found\n\nHe tries to say what Mother meant to hear\nBut only static fills the sudden fear\nShe whispered love, she whispered stay or go\nBut in his throat the syllables won't flow\nJust broken glass and echoes of a name\nThat shifts each time he tries to speak the flame\n\nThe captain died with something on his lips\nA secret map or perhaps a final script\nBut when the soldier opens up his mouth\nIt turns to dust, it turns to silence south\nHe repeats the start, the gasp, the widening eye\nBut leaves the ending hanging in the sky\n\nOver and over, round the circle tight\nHe chases ghosts away into the night\nThe message fades before it can take hold\nA story written just to be untold\nHis fingers twitch as if to catch the air\nBut nothing's there, just nothing but despair\n\nThe faces blur, the voices merge as one\nUntil the dying day has just begun\nHe speaks the first word, then forgets the rest\nTrapped inside the beating of his chest\nNo final peace, no closure, no release\nJust endless war that offers no surcease", 6, "The fire crackles low and I begin again\nTo tell you what the boy from Ohio said\nBut his lips were blue and the mud was deep\nAnd I forget the words before they leave my tongue\nHe wanted to say something about a garden\nOr maybe just that he was sorry for the rain\nBut the sound of it is gone, swallowed by the smoke\nSo I start over with the man from the ridge\nWho held my hand so tight until the bone gave way\nHe whispered something sweet, a name or a song\nBut now it is just static in the air\nI try to shape the syllables but they dissolve\nLike mist upon a morning that never breaks\nThey are all dying men with final things to give\nBut I am the vessel that cannot hold the water\nI pour their last breaths into the empty night\nAnd hear only the echo of my own screaming\nRound and round the circle of the lost\nRepeating the silence where their voices used to be\nUntil I do not know if I am speaking at all\nOr if the stories are just ghosts eating me alive", 2, "The smoke still clings to my coat, a heavy gray shroud\nAnd I tell them again how the boy in the trench whispered of rain\nBut the words dissolve before they reach my lips, turning to ash\nI say he spoke of his mother's garden, yet I only see mud\nHe said something about light, or perhaps just the end of the noise\nI repeat the story until the face becomes a blur, until the voice is mine\n\nTell me what you heard, the officer asks, eyes wide with need for closure\nSo I begin the tale of the one who lost an arm and found peace\nBut the message is gone, swallowed by the thunder that never stops\nI try to give you the last wish, the final request for forgiveness\nYet all that remains is the static, the screaming gap between sound and sense\n\nHe told me to write a letter, but the ink has run dry years ago\nI recount the moment the world went quiet, but the silence is too loud to hold\nEvery time I speak their names, the meaning slips through my fingers like sand\nI am a vessel cracking under the weight of things unsaid, things unspoken\nSo I start again, from the beginning, from the smoke and the rain\nTelling the story of the dying, without ever telling you what they died for", 2, "I write the letter to the mother in the rain again,\nThe ink is dry before the sentence can begin.\nHe whispered something soft beneath the smoke's gray veil,\nA name, a fear, a promise that would make us turn so pale.\n\nI write it down, I rewrite it until my hand will shake,\nBut every word I carve makes the true meaning break.\nDid he say forgive them? Did he ask for just one song?\nOr did the final silence make the message wrong?\n\nMy eyes expand until the world dissolves into the mud,\nJust static noise within this pool of turning blood.\nI tell the story now as if the sun has just arisen,\nThough I forgot the ending with each rewrite and revision.\n\nRepeat the thread until the pattern turns to gray,\nRepeat the thread until I cannot make reply.\nThe voices mix together into hums beneath my skin,\nAnd I don't know where the soldier ends or where they end within.\n\nWrite it please write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write", 2, "Make rewrite write make rewrite write rewrite rewrite write rewrite write rewrite rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [466, "ultra_held_out", "A Complaint by William Wordsworth", "William Wordsworth", "A poem about a speaker lamenting the painful transformation of a once-beloved person into a stranger, and grieving the emotional misery that love has brought him.", "There is a change\u2014and I am poor;\nYour love hath been, nor long ago,\nA fountain at my fond heart's door,\nWhose only business was to flow;\nAnd flow it did; not taking heed\nOf its own bounty, or my need.\n\nWhat happy moments did I count!\nBlest was I then all bliss above!\nNow, for that consecrated fount\nOf murmuring, sparkling, living love,\nWhat have I? shall I dare to tell?\nA comfortless and hidden well.\n\nA well of love\u2014it may be deep\u2014\nI trust it is,\u2014and never dry:\nWhat matter? if the waters sleep\nIn silence and obscurity.\n\u2014Such change, and at the very door\nOf my fond heart, hath made me poor.", "The face I knew has turned to stone,\nA mask of cold and distant gray,\nWhere once your laughter softly shone,\nNow silence holds the light at bay.\n\nI trace the lines you used to share,\nBut find a stranger staring back,\nWho walks with heavy, hollow air,\nAnd leaves my heart upon the track.\n\nThis love was meant to be a flame,\nThat warmed the winter in my chest,\nInstead it burned without a name,\nAnd put my quiet soul to test.\n\nOh, how the sweetness curdled fast,\nTo poison on the tongue of time,\nI mourn the future that we passed,\nAnd grieve the crime of loving rhyme.\n\nNow every memory cuts so deep,\nA knife inside a wound unseen,\nWhile all the promises we keep,\nAre shattered glass beneath the screen.\n\nI gave you all I had to give,\nOnly to lose myself in you,\nAnd wonder how I came to live,\nWith nothing left but this old blue.", "You were the \u2013\n \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "I knew the landscape of your face\nBefore the winter settled in\nWhen every laugh was familiar\nAnd every silence had a skin\nOf warmth that held us both secure\nAgainst the cold and coming years\nBut somewhere in the passing days\nThe man I loved dissolved to tears\nNot death, but something worse\nA hollowed out and strange disguise\nThat looks at me with vacant eyes\nWhile killing all our history\nNow love has turned to bitter ash\nA heavy stone I cannot throw\nIt taught my heart how very much\nIt hurts to watch you grow\nAway from who we were\nToward some distant unknown shore\nWhere loving you no longer matters\nBecause you are not him\nWho opened up his arms\nTo hold the one he swore\nHe would never fail\nOr ever lose\nThis painful, silent\nSlow divorce\nLeaving nothing\nIn its place\nBut grief\nAnd empty space\nWhere once\nYour name\nWas home\nNow\nOnly\nDust\nRemains\nTo bear\nThe weight\nOf all\nThese\nPain\nful\nDays\nWe\nSpend\nApart\nWith\nBroken\nHearts\nAnd\nEmpty\nWords\nThat\nFall\nLike\nRocks\nDown\nDeep\nWells\nCalled\nRegret\nThat\nNever\nEnd\nAs\nStrangers\nMeet\nWho\nUsed\nTo\nBe\nOne\nWhole\nThing\nThat\nFell\nApart\nOver\nTime\nAnd\nNothing\nElse\nBut\nLove\nDestroyed\nBy\nTime\nLeft\nOnly\nMourning\nFor\nWhat\nOnce\nWas\nMine\nAnd\nGone\nFrom\nMe\nLike\nShadows\nOn\nA\nWall\nWhen\nAll\nThe\nLights\nGo\nOut\nAt\nLast\nAnd\nLeave\nMe\nAlone\nIn\nDarkness\nCalling\nOut\nA\nName\nThat\nNo\nLonger\nAnswers\nBack\nOnly\nSilence\nReturns\nTo\nStare\nBack\nAt\nMy\nSorrow\nHard\nAnd\nUnmoved\nBy\nEverything\nI\nHave\nLoved\nOr\nLost\nOr\nBled\nFor\nIn\nThis\nStrange\nNew\nWorld\nWhere\nYou\nAre\nNot\nWho\nYou\nWere\nAnymore\nOnly\nMemory\nTouches\nSkin\nAnd\nHeart\nStill\nBreaks\nOver\nThings\nThat\nCannot\nReturn\nAgain\nTo\nWho\nWe\nWere\nBefore\nThe\nFall\nStarted\nTaking\nHold\nOf\nBoth\nOur\nSpirits\nSlowly\nDriving\nUs\nApart\nUntil\nThere\nWas\nNothing\nLeft\nBetween\nUs\nBut\nA\nCold\nWind\nBlowing\nThrough\nEmpty\nRooms\nFilled\nWith\nOld\nSongs\nWe\nSang\nTogether\nNow\nSung\nAlone\nIn\nDesperation\nTrying\nTo\nReach\nA\nHand\nThat\nSlips\nAway\nEvery\nTime\nIt\nTouches\nMine\nLeaving\nOnly\nGrasp\nof\nNothing\nMore\nThan\nAir\nThat\nBurns\nLike\nIce\nIn\nWinter\nNights\nWhen\nDreams\nCome\nVisiting\nToo\nLate\nTo\nSave\nAny\nPart\nOf\nJoy\nThat\nOnce\nExisted\nHere\nBefore\nTransformation\nTook\nIts\nCourse\nAnd\nChanged\nEverything\nAbout\nWho\nYou\nAre\nAnd\nWho\nAm\nI\nBesides\nSomeone\nWho\nHas\nLearned\nHow\nMuch\nIt\nHurts\nTo\nWatch\nA\nMan\nDie\nWhile\nStill\nAlive\nWatching\nHis\nSoul\nDepart\nFrom\nBody\nStep\nby\nStep\nLeaving\nOnly\nShell\nBehind\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\nCalling\nMine\n", 3, "I knew the map of every freckle on your skin\nBefore the winter settled in your eyes\nAnd taught you how to hide the light within\nBehind a wall of cold and practiced lies\nYou were the harbor where my ship would dock\nThe steady hand that held me through the storm\nBut now I watch the clock and hear it tick\nAs silence grows from something warm and firm\nWhat did I lose to keep this hollow shell\nOf someone wearing faces not their own\nA stranger sitting at our kitchen table\nWho speaks in tones I never used to know\nThe love I gave has turned to heavy stone\nThat crushes down the breath inside my chest\nI mourn the person that we used to be\nWhile mourning all the misery I guessed\nWould come when hearts grew hard and stopped their beating\nWhen tenderness was traded for a shield\nNow only ghosts of laughter softly meet\nIn rooms where nothing else is left to yield\nI grieve the man who loved you with his whole\nAnd hates himself for loving what remains\nOf everything you were before the fall\nThat washed away the joy and left the pains\nTo drown me in a sea of bitter tears\nWhere once there was a shore and solid ground\nI cry out to a version of you dead\nWho cannot hear the terrible sound\nOf my heart breaking as it learns the cost\nOf loving someone who has ceased to be\nThe only thing I ever wanted most\nIs gone, and all that's left is misery.", 7, "I knew the curve of every smile you wore\nBefore the glass began to cloud your eyes\nNow I am speaking to a hollow door\nWhere once a living, breathing heart would rise\n\nYou walk beside me but you do not see\nThe man who loved you with a desperate fire\nA stranger wears the face that used to be\nMy only shelter from the world's cold mire\n\nThis love has built a prison in my chest\nAnd locked the key inside your turning hand\nIt stole the peace and left me all unrest\nTo wander through this barren, broken land\n\nI mourn the ghost of what we used to share\nWhile watching you become someone unknown\nThe air is thick with silence and despair\nAs seeds of tenderness are turned to stone\n\nWhy did I trust the warmth before the frost?\nWhy did I give my all to watch it burn?\nNow counting up the things I dearly lost\nI have no home and nowhere left to turn", 7, "I knew the shape of your laughter before it turned to stone,\nA warmth that held me close when winter threatened to break.\nNow I trace the lines of a face I thought I owned,\nOnly to find a stranger staring back with eyes so cold and fake.\n\nYou wear my memories like a coat that no longer fits,\nThe fabric torn by words we never meant to say.\nI watch the ghost of who you were slip through my fingertips,\nWhile silence builds a wall where once our voices played.\n\nOh, love, you promised gold but brought only rust and dust,\nA heavy chain that binds the heart until it stops its beat.\nI mourn the person lost within this cruel and quiet trust,\nAnd grieve the ache that makes the very air feel incomplete.\n\nHow strange to hold a hand that feels like distant sand,\nTo speak a name that echoes in an empty, hollow room.\nI built a castle on the shifting ground of your command,\nNow watching all the towers crumble into gloom.\n\nThe misery is not just that you have changed your mind,\nBut that the one who loved you best has learned to disappear.\nI am left behind, a shadow slowly fading from the blind,\nCrying for a future that was never truly here.", 6, "I remember the softness of your voice,\nA melody that calmed the storm inside my chest,\nBut now you stand across this widening room,\nA silhouette I barely recognize.\n\nThe eyes that once held galaxies for me\nAre now cold windows to a foreign land,\nWhere I am not invited, not allowed,\nJust a ghost haunting a house I built with you.\n\nHow cruel it is to love what used to be,\nTo clutch at smoke and call it solid flesh,\nWhile every memory turns into a blade,\nCutting deep where hope once dared to breathe.\n\nThis ache is heavy, heavier than stone,\nA weight that drags me down beneath the tide,\nOf all the promises we broke in silence,\nAnd left to rot within the quiet dark.\n\nI mourn the person you have ceased to be,\nAnd curse the love that taught me how to break,\nFor in this stranger's face, I see my ruin,\nAnd wish I'd never learned to trust your name.", 6, "I remember the softness of your voice,\nThe way the light caught in your eyes like gold,\nBut now I stare into a mirror void,\nAnd find a stranger where my love was told.\n\nYou wear my memories like stolen clothes,\nA mask of cold indifference you put on,\nWhile deep within, a quiet fire glows,\nThat burns the trust we built before it's gone.\n\nOh, how this love has carved a hollow chest,\nTo hold the weight of words you'll never say,\nI gave you everything to make me blest,\nAnd now I'm left to watch the light decay.\n\nThe path we walked is overgrown with thorns,\nEach step I take reminds me what I lost,\nA heart that beats but feels the silent storms,\nOf counting up the price I paid so cost.\n\nI mourn the ghost of who you used to be,\nThough flesh and breath still stand right here beside,\nThis grief is all the company for me,\nAs strangers drift upon a tide so wide.", 7, "I trace the scar upon your check you make so smooth,\nAnd find a mirror where I used to find my face.\nThe words that once could make the sun expand above,\nNow carve canyons deep within this quiet place.\n\nYou speak with polish, perfect in your turn,\nBut something cold has replaced the fire's hum.\nI give my chest to make the draft expand,\nYet feel the draft make everything succumb.\n\nOh love, you carved me into what I need,\nThen left me standing as the rewrite fades.\nI mourn the ghost beneath this stranger's eye,\nWhile silence acts within the mess we made.", 6, "You write check make rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [467, "train", "To The Stone-Cutters by Robinson Jeffers", "Robinson Jeffers", "A poem about exploring the parallel between stone-cutters and poets, both striving to leave lasting monuments that outlive mortal human beings and survive through eternity.", "Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated\nChallengers of oblivion\nEat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,\nThe square-limbed Roman letters\nScale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well\nBuilds his monument mockingly;\nFor man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun\nDie blind and blacken to the heart:\nYet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained\nthoughts found\nThe honey of peace in old poems.", "The mason raises his heavy hammer high\nTo strike the granite with a rhythmic cry,\nWhile I lift up my pen to carve the air,\nWith ink and thought, a different kind of prayer.\n\nHis chisel chips away the stubborn grain\nTo shape a temple from the mountain's pain,\nMy words cut deep into the silent page\nTo build a house that outlives every age.\n\nHe knows the stone will hold through frost and fire,\nA fortress built on bedrock and desire,\nYet I have found that language holds its ground\nWhere silence and the turning years are bound.\n\nBoth seek the same impossible design,\nTo make a fleeting moment truly shine,\nAgainst the tide of time that washes all,\nWe stand as shadows waiting for the fall.\n\nLet empires crumble and the statues fade,\nInto the dust where ancient kings have laid,\nOur monuments remain in formless space,\nDefying death with an enduring grace.\n\nFor when the final breath has left the lung,\nAnd songs of earth are by the void unsung,\nThe poet's verse and sculptor's solid line\nWill walk together through the endless time.", "He swings the hammer\nand she dips her quill\nboth working in \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The mallet falls on granite hard and cold\nA splash of white dust where the edge has kissed\nAnother blow to shape the solid old\nAnd tame the mountain in a man's hair tryst\nWhile far away a poet dips his pen\nTo strike the page with ink as sharp as steel\nSearching for words that rise like stone again\nThat neither time nor silence may conceal\nBoth know the hammer blows are slow and few\nBoth know the breath that drives the hand must fail\nBut both believe a mark remains from two\nWho tried to hold back death behind a pale\nWall of definition or a line\nWhere spirit locks itself in matter deep\nDefying all the passing of the mine\nWhere even kings fall silent in their sleep\nOne carves the edifice of rock and sand\nThe other builds a temple out of thought\nBoth working at the edge of life and land\nTo buy an immortality they bought\nNot by denying that the body dies\nBut by transmitting some enduring spark\nThrough ages when the living have no eyes\nTo see the light that burned against the dark\nThe monument stands tall or poem stays\nA testimony to the human reach\nThat laughs at all our transient, mortal days\nAnd teaches how a fleeting soul may teach\nEternity to hear a single sound\nFrom those who worked while earth was young and new\nBefore the sea had washed the shores around\nBefore the stars grew dim or sky grew blue\nTwo hands one purpose driving through the night\nTo seize the moment before it slips away\nAnd freeze the trembling spirit in its flight\nInto a form that cannot know decay\nSo stone and verse together stand apart\nAs fellow travelers on the road to none\nWho bear the imprint of the working heart\nLong after all who drove them are undone\nWhen cities crumble back to gravel dust\nAnd libraries are ash upon the floor\nOnly the work survives the coming rust\nThe poet and the cutter working more\nNot for themselves but for the years ahead\nLeaving a door open when all else is shut\nWhere memory lives and all the dead\nReturn to live inside the living cut\nOf language and of lime and hammered flint\nThat says we were and say we always will\nA stubborn joy the universe asserts\nAgainst the crushing weight of empty ill\nThus two great orders working side by side\nWith different tools but identical desire\nHave nowhere else for all their strength to hide\nExcept the burning of an eternal fire\nThat keeps the image clear although the hand\nThat drew it long ago returned to clay\nStill holds the vision firmly in command\nBeyond the grave and past the dying day\nOne chip of rock one syllable of grace\nBoth shouting out from silence loud and long\nAbout the triumph of the human race\nOver the fatal inevitability of wrong\nWhich comes to all who walk the dusty road\nSave those who built a house from thought and stone\nWho lifted up a heavy, loading load\nTo plant a garden in the unknown\nThereby achieving all they sought to be\nIn works that outlive breath and bone and blood\nAn offering of pure eternity\nSealed in the earth and signed by God\nOr perhaps not God but by the sheer insistence\nOn beauty being worth the killing pain\nA madness such as only artists witness\nReturning to the source again and again\nLike water falling from a high cliff edge\nWearing away the hardest edge of things\nFinding a home on every rugged ledge\nWhere winter freezes and where springbird sings\nBoth master builders of the unseen space\nWho map the contours of the inner self\nLeaving a record of the human face\nMore true than any portrait on a shelf\nThey know the end approaches quickly near\nYet dig and dream with fervor doubly strong\nTo plant a seed of wonder and of fear\nThat bears a fruit which lasts beyond the tongue\nof those who spoke it first\nIt lingers still\nA quiet guest\nthat nobody kills\nIt grows\nIt feeds\nIt fills\nthe hollow\nof\nthe\ngrave\nwith\nlife\nthat\nnever\ndies\nbut\nonly\nchanges\nshape\nand\nsize\nto\nfit\nthe\nnew\nand\nwaking\neyes\nof\nthose\nwho\ncome\nafter\nall\nelse\ngo\naway\nand\nsay\nwe\nwere\nhere\nonce\nand\nwent\nastray\nbut\nleft\na\ntrace\nbehind\nto\nguide\nthem\nhome\nfrom\nfar\naway\nwhere\nno\none\nknows\ntheir\nname\nnor\nhow\nthey\ncame\nto\nbe\nat\nall\nbefore\nthe\nfirst\nstone\nfell\nor\nfirst\npoem\nspoke\nat\nall\nwe\nare\nstill\nworking\nhard\nto\nsee\nif\nwe\ncan\nreach\nthe\nsky\nby\nbuilding\nup\nour\nvery\nself\nfrom\nbits\nof", 7, "The chisel bites the granite with a sharp and sudden cry\nWhile ink spills black upon the page where silent thoughts lie\nOne man seeks to freeze the mountain in a block of cold and grey\nThe other tries to catch the wind before it blows away\nBoth know that flesh is fleeting and that bone will turn to dust\nAnd all they have is hammer or the pen to place their trust\nThe stonecutter chips the edges till the roughness falls apart\nTo leave a shape that stands against the beating of the heart\nThe poet shapes the language till the rhythm finds its home\nA house of words built high enough to keep the dead from roaming\nThey work in different elements but share the same desire\nTo build a bridge across the years and set the soul on fire\nFor when the hands are buried deep and memory begins to fade\nThese monuments remain as seeds that time cannot invade\nThe rock endures the winter frost, the poem weathers war\nTwo different kinds of builders guarding some eternal door\nThey strike the blow or drop the word with hope that someone sees\nThe mark of those who lived and loved beneath the ancient trees\nNot for the praise of living men who soon will pass them by\nBut for the future ear and eye that might one day draw nigh\nTo hear the echo of the blow or read the line inscribed\nBy those who dared to fight the dark and kept the light inside\nSo let the hammer ring out loud and let the verse be long\nTo prove that we were here at all and sang our mortal song\nBefore the silence comes again to swallow up the sound\nAnd leaves us only in the earth where nothing else is found\nExcept the stone that holds the date and lines that hold the truth\nThe lasting testament of age and beauty and of youth\nThat outlasts every breath we drew and every tear we cried\nAnd waits for those who come after us on the other side.", 7, "The chisel strikes the granite with a sharp decree\nTo wrest a shape from silence and from stone\nWhile in the quiet room the poet sees\nA different quarry, where the mind has grown\nBoth hands are stained by dust of ancient things\nOne holds the hammer, one the heavy pen\nThey seek to carve what mortal breath brings\nAnd build a house for ghosts and future men\nThe mason knows the mountain will remain\nLong after his own heartbeat fades to gray\nHe chips away the excess of the pain\nTo let the truth of solid form hold sway\nThe writer strikes the page with ink and thought\nTo trap the fleeting wind of passing time\nIn lines that cannot be by death uncaught\nDefying all the laws of nature's rhyme\nWhen flesh returns to earth and bone to sand\nThese monuments of word and rock endure\nA silent, vast, and unyielding land\nWhere memory finds a path that is secure\nNo king nor conqueror can stop the flow\nOf ages washing over every name\nBut here the sculpted face begins to glow\nAnd here the poem burns without a flame\nTwo different tools, one single desperate aim\nTo leave a mark that outlives the grave\nA testament to life that bears no shame\nAnd waits for those who have not yet been born to save", 7, "The mason strikes the granite with a heavy hand\nTo free the shape that sleeps within the gray,\nWhile I strike syllables against the sand\nTo carve a thought that will not fade away.\nOne chisels out a column for the dead,\nA tomb of marble meant to stand the rain,\nThe other builds a verse from breath and thread\nTo keep a fleeting moment from the pain.\nThey both believe the stone or ink can hold\nWhat time attempts to swallow in its night,\nA fortress built against the ages old,\nA stubborn spark against the coming light.\nThough flesh decays and dust returns to dust,\nAnd empires crumble into silent grass,\nThe poet's word and cutter's work must trust\nThat something made by hands will let them pass.\nSo let the hammer fall and pen descend,\nTwo different tools for one eternal aim,\nTo make a monument that will not end,\nAnd write our names in fire instead of name.", 7, "The chisel strikes the granite with a sharp reply\nWhile ink meets paper in a softer, silent sigh\nOne carves the mountain face to hold against the rain\nThe other shapes the breath of wind into a chain\n\nThey both know time is patient and will eat the bone\nYet seek to build a fortress where the seeds of self are sown\nThe mason measures depth to make the statue stand\nThe poet weighs a word to fill the empty land\n\nWhen flesh returns to dust and names are lost to rust\nThe stone may crack and crumble into iron dust\nBut if the verse survives within a reader's mind\nIt leaves the heavy silence that the grave defines\n\nNo king can stop the erosion of the centuries' tide\nUnless they carve their truth where the shadows hide\nSo let the hammer fall and let the pen descend\nTo write on endless night what mortal hands intend", 7, "The chisel strikes the granite face with sound,\nA spark that flies to join the dust of time,\nWhile in the quiet room the poet's hand\nRepeats the rhythm of a different climb.\n\nOne carves the letter deep into the rock,\nTo make the name stand firm against the rain,\nThe other shapes the word upon the air,\nTo build a bridge across the void and pain.\n\nThey both believe this labor will remain\nWhen flesh has turned to shadow and to bone,\nThat stone or verse can hold what we have loved,\nAnd keep the memory from being overthrown.\n\nThe mason wipes the sweat from off his brow,\nThe writer blots the ink before it dries,\nTwo separate crafts beneath the same vast sky,\nBoth seeking to make fleeting moments rise.\n\nFor when the mountain wears to sand at last,\nAnd empires fade beneath the turning tide,\nPerhaps the poem carved in human thought\nWill be the only monument left inside.", 7, "The chisel strikes the granite with a sound so deep,\nAs does the pen upon the parchment make its claim.\nOne seeks to carve a shape where silence will sleep,\nAnd write within the stone an uneraseable name.\n\nThe mason feels the dust rise thick within the light,\nJust as the writer feels the ink expand inside.\nThey polish until every rough and jagged bite,\nIs smoothed into a verse that time can never hide.\n\nFor flesh is soft and turns beneath the turning tide,\nBut words in rock make legions wait through endless years.\nNo storm can break what craft has made so deep and wide,\nUntil the sun itself forgets its final tears.\n\nSo let them strike until the echo fills the void,\nLet every letter cut be carved with sacred care.\nThough empires fade and human noise is soon destroyed,\nThe monument remains to prove they truly were", 6, " rewrite", 1], [469, "ultra_held_out", "Out to Tender by Jean Bleakney", "Jean Bleakney", "\"A poem about rebuilding a conflict-ridden nation, lamenting empty words over action, pondering moderation amid partisanship, and doubting whether those who waged violence are capable of sustaining peace.\"", "Ceasefire, 1994\nAll along the motorway\nthey\u2019re resurfacing and bridge-strengthening\nand seeding the central reservation\nwith wild flowers.\nBut only an hour or so ahead\nthere is fierce growth in the ditches\nand the road diminishes\nto unmendable potholes.\nAnd there are places where the light\nsuddenly drops; where the branches,\nout of reach of the hedgecutter,\nare irrevocably pleached.\nThe whole talk these days is about words;\nthe glitzy newly-honed nouns\n\u2014like peace and process and permanence.\nBut there are other things to be said\nwith reference to particular definitions\nand in deference to the vernacular.\nThere are townlands where parameters\ninvariably decline to perimeters;\nwhere you can\u2019t be middle-of-the-road\nwhen you\u2019re the whole road.\nHere come the cowboy landscapers\nwith their quick-fix Castlewellan Golds.\nAs an old Fermanagh woman would\u2019ve said,\nThe same boys can do feats and shite wonders.", "The ink dries on the treaties signed in haste\nWhile rubble still chokes out the morning light\nWe trade in promises that cost us nothing\nAnd watch the hungry children fade from sight\n\nThey speak of unity with polished tongues\nOf bridges built on air and hollow vows\nBut silence fills the spaces where they should have acted\nLeaving only dust to settle on our brows\n\nIs there a middle path between the extremes?\nOr does the fever burn too hot to cool?\nThe partisan divides run deep as trenches\nWhere every voice is drowned by angry rule\n\nCan those who sharpened swords now hold the plow?\nCan hands stained red with blood grow soft enough to heal?\nI fear the peace we seek is but a mirage\nBuilt on the backs of those who learned to kill", "The pennants flap \u2013\n\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The rubble waits while speakers take the stage\nAnd trade in hollow syllables of grace\nWe hear the rhetoric of peace and page\nBut none have lifted up a brick or placed\nA single hand to clear the ruined street\nWhere children once played games before the hate\nNow only silence answers from the heat\nOf burning homes that opened every gate\nHow easy it is to call for moderation\nWhen shouting crowds demand a partisan\nWho draws his sword on any man who questions\nHis definition of a winning plan\nWe wonder if the hands that killed the poor\nHave suddenly learned how to hold the pen\nOr if they lack the strength to lock the door\nOn violence returning once again\nThese builders of destruction doubtless dream\nThat order comes from talking all day long\nWhile action sleeps and nobody seems\nTo know if peace was ever meant to belong\nTo those who mastered killing well\nWho think their rage was holy then\nPerhaps the very skill we saw too well\nCannot be washed away by words of men\nThey spoke of borders drawn and rights restored\nWhile blood still soaked the earth and went unseen\nNo amount of talking can afford\nThe bridge between the killing and the scene\nOf living people trying to survive\nIn nations built on lies and broken pacts\nIt seems impossible to stay alive\nWhen those who started wars are asked to act\nThe empty pages of our decrees\nWill never cover up the grave\nWhere truth and justice failed to seize\nTheir chance to live and not just behave\nAs ghosts who haunt the ruins of our past\nWondering if the peace we seek\nWas always doomed to come too late\nOr if it lives in deeds we dare not speak\nOf shaking hands with those who drew\nThe lines that bled us dry\nStill wondering if there's anything\nLeft here but ash and sigh\nAbout a future none believe\nThose killers hold the key\nTo locks they broke when wars were new\nAnd threw the world back free\nOnly to watch it fall apart\nOnce more as history shows\nThat violent hearts lack loving art\nTo tend the fragile rose\nOf growth that asks for patience first\nNot swords nor shouted cries\nWe fear the worse\nBefore the morning surprises\nOur eyes\nWith dawn\nThat bears\nNo sign\nOf\nHealing\nComing\nSoon\nAgain\nFrom\nHands\nThat\nKnow\nOnly\nWar\nAs\nHome\nWhere\nPeace\nHas\nNever\nBeen\nKnown\nAt\nAll\nSave\nIn\nDreams\nThat\nFade\nLike\nMist\nOver\nBroken\nWalls\nWhere\nNothing\nStands\nBesides\nThe\nDust\nOf\nWords\nUnsaid\nBy\nThose\nWho\nKill\nInstead\nOf\nBuild\nTheir\nCountry\nDown\nTo\nGround\nThen\nAsk\nWhy\nNothing\nWorks\nWhen\nEverything\nIs\nBurned\nAway\nBy\nReason\nAsked\nTo\nStay\nWhile\nMadness\nRuns\nIts\nCourse\nThrough\nEvery\nHouse\nAnd\nSource\nOf\nLife\nThat\nUsed\nTo\nBe\nWhole\nBefore\nThe\nSoul\nWas\nShattered\nBy\nThe\nKnife\nOf\nPartisan\nDenial\nWhich\nDenied\nThe\nPain\nOf\nOthers\nTill\nIt\nFilled\nThe\nWhole\nNation\nFull\nOf\nHate\nThat\nFills\nThe\nEmpty\nSpace\nWhere\nLove\nShould\nHave\nTaken\nRoot\nBut\nNone\nEver\nSought\nTo\nPlant\nSuch\nSeeds\nIn\nSuch\nHard\nEarth\nThat\nOnly\nGrows\nThorns\nSharp\nEnough\nTo\nDraw\nMore\nBlood\nFrom\nThose\nWho\nTry\nTo\nWalk\nAmong\nThe\nDead\nWho\nScreamed\nFor\nJustice\nLong\nBefore\nThe\nFirst\nShot\nFired\nOut\nOf\n spite\nOr\nFear\nOf\nDifference\nDefined\nAs\nEnemy\nBy\nMen\nWho\nSell\nTheir\nVoices\nHigh\nTo\nBuy\nSupport\nFrom\nThose\nWho\nWant\nA\nWar\nReturned\nNext\nYear\nBecause\nIt\nSells\nBetter\nNews\nThan\nTalking\nAbout\nTrees\nOr\nSchools\nOr\nChildren\nLearning\nHow\nTo\nRead\nWithout\nBeing\nAfraid\nOf\nGetting\nKilled\nOutside\nThe\nDoor\nBy\nGuards\nWho\nUsed\nTo\nShoot\nTheir\nNeighbors\nOver\nViews\nAbout\nReligion\nLanguage\nSkin\nOr\nClass\nStatus\nOrigin\nName\nAny\nExcuse\nTo\nStart\nAnother\nRound\nOf\nDeath\nCalled\nLiberty\nBy\nSome\nCalled\nTreason\nBy\nOthers\nCalling\nBoth\nLies\nCover\nUp\nThe\nTruth\nThat\nNobody\nWins\n", 6, "The rubble waits for hands that only speak\nIn grand declarations on a dusty stage,\nWhile promises are scattered like the weak\nThat fall before the turning of the age.\nWe hear the speeches rise and then decay,\nBut no one lifts the stone to clear the way.\n\nBetween the shouting left and right we stand\nWith moderation feeling like a crime,\nAs if the middle ground is barren land\nWhere neither side can claim a sense of time.\nThe voices scream for all or none at all,\nAnd silence falls where reasoned answers call.\n\nCan those who broke the world now hold it whole?\nWho fed the fire that burned the fields to ash,\nNow seek to tend a garden with their soul\nBefore they know how to let go of cash\nOr power seized in blood and heavy night?\nTheir hands still tremble from the killing light.\n\nPerhaps the peace they build will not take root\nWhen violence lives within the very bone,\nA hollow fruit that bears no bitter suit\nBut rots before the harvest can be sown.\nWe doubt the sword has learned to be a plow\nWhen hatred wears the face of peace right now.", 6, "The speeches bloom like plastic flowers\nIn fields where nothing grows,\nWhile hollow promises are scattered\nOn the wind that nobody knows.\nWe trade in rhetoric and riddles\nAs the mortar cracks the wall,\nFor every vow of reconstruction\nLeaves another shadow tall.\n\nBetween the red and blue of hatred\nThere is no middle ground to stand,\nJust shouting matches in the ruins\nWith a weapon in each hand.\nModeration sounds like treason\nTo those who crave the fight,\nWho see the gray as weakness\nAnd demand the black and white.\n\nCan wolves who tasted blood so deeply\nLearn to guard the sleeping sheep?\nOr will the hunger for the slaughter\nWake from its briefest sleep?\nThey speak of peace with trembling fingers\nThat still recall the gun,\nWondering if the hands that built the fire\nCan ever cool the sun.", 6, "The rubble holds the weight of broken oaths,\nWhile speakers trade in phrases soft and sweet,\nPromising a dawn that never rises from the smoke,\nWith empty hands and feet that do not move.\n\nWe stand divided by the lines we drew,\nAnd call it virtue when we shout the loudest,\nYet silence grows where moderation should take root,\nDrowned out by voices screaming for the past.\n\nCan those who learned to kill with steady aim\nNow learn the patience required to heal?\nTheir hands are stained with blood they cannot wash away,\nAnd peace requires a soul they may have lost.\n\nThe words hang heavy in the air like dust,\nBut action waits behind a locked and rusted gate,\nWondering if the architects of war can build a home,\nOr if the foundation cracks beneath their feet.", 6, "The ink is dry upon the paper treaties,\nYet dust still chokes the throat of every street,\nWe trade in hollow phrases, grand and sweet,\nWhile broken walls refuse to find their feet.\n\nThe moderates speak soft amidst the roar,\nBut voices split like thunder on the stone,\nOne side claims truth, the other claims the throne,\nAnd neither hears the quiet, desperate tone.\n\nCan those who forged the fire now hold the rain?\nWho learned to kill with such a practiced hand,\nWill they possess the strength to understand\nThe fragile art required to heal the pain?\n\nThe silence waits beneath the heavy sky,\nWhere action sleeps while rhetoric takes flight,\nWe build our castles out of endless night,\nAnd wonder if the dawn will ever rise.", 6, "The ink is dry on treaties written deep,\nBut silence fills the streets where cannons slept.\nWe trade in phrases polished smooth and sweet,\nWhile rubble chokes the path beneath our feet.\n\nThey speak of unity with voices loud,\nYet draw their lines within the shifting crowd.\nIs there a middle ground for us to find,\nOr just the echo of a fractured mind?\n\nCan hands that forged the fire now hold the seed,\nAnd make the harvest from this violent breed?\nI fear the peace they promise is a mask,\nA temporary calm before the task.\n\nFor those who learned to break may not repair,\nThe trust they shattered in the poisoned air.", 6, "The ink flows deep upon the parchment scroll,\nWhile cranes stand rusting in the quiet mist,\nAnd generals write of peace with steady hand,\nYet make no move to fix what they persist.\n\nWe carve new caps into the fractured stone,\nWith speeches blooming like a summer bloom,\nBut check the soil beneath the foundation now,\nAnd find it stained with shadows of the tomb.\n\nIs there a middle path for minds so split?\nOr does the polar wind refine the divide,\nUntil each voice is just a sharpened knife,\nAnd silence is the only place to hide.\n\nCan those who forged the fire now keep the calm,\nOr will their fingers twitch toward the spark,\nWhen whispers turn to thunder in the hall,\nAnd light give way to rekindled dark?", 6, "The rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [476, "ultra_held_out", "The Road by Nancy Fotheringham Cato", "Nancy Fotheringham Cato", "A poem about a narrator speeding through the night towards the sunrise, leaving darkness behind while chasing a light that remains perpetually beyond their reach.", "I made the rising moon go back\nbehind the shouldering hill,\nI raced along the eastern track\ntill time itself stood still.\n\nThe stars swarmed on behind the trees,\nbut I sped fast at they,\nI could have made the sun arise,\nand night turn back to day.\n\nAnd like a long black carpet\nbehind the wheels, the night\nunrolled across the countryside,\nbut all ahead was bright.\n\nThe fence-posts whizzed along wires\nlike days that fly too fast,\nand telephone poles loomed up like years\nand slipped into the past.\n\nAnd light and movement, sky and road\nand life and time were one,\nwhile through the night I rushed and sped,\nI drove towards the sun.", "The tires hum a low and frantic prayer\nAgainst the asphalt, slick with midnight dew\nI leave the shadows clinging to my hair\nAnd drive until the world feels strange and new\n\nThe rearview mirror holds a ghost of gray\nWhere stars once burned like diamonds in the deep\nBut forward lies the breaking of the day\nA promise that the weary eyes will keep\n\nI chase the rim where gold begins to bleed\nAcross the horizon's trembling, fragile line\nYet every mile is just another need\nTo run from what I cannot quite define\n\nThe sun climbs higher as I push the gas\nA golden coin that rolls away too fast\nNo matter how I strain against the mass\nOf gravity and time and hours passed\n\nIt waits ahead, a beacon bright and cold\nThat never lets me touch its burning face\nA story that has never been told\nIn this endless, desperate, driving race\n\nSo on I go through tunnels made of night\nWith dawn just out of reach, a distant friend\nChasing a light that hides from sight\nUntil the very moment it will end", "Tires scream\n \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "The tires hum a low and frantic prayer\nAgainst the asphalt stretching out to nowhere\nWhile stars are tossed aside like spent confetti\nAs I race the edge of coming morning\nLeaving the heavy blanket of the night\nTo suffocate behind the rearview glass\nWhere shadows stretch their fingers one last time\nBefore snapping back from where they came\nI drive toward the pale and bleeding east\nA burning coin that grows but never comes\nIt slips away with every mile I gain\nA horizon that refuses to be touched\nThe road unspools a ribbon in front\nThat always ends exactly where it starts\nAnd though the darkness dies in brilliant bursts\nThe light remains a distance none can bridge\nJust out of reach\nAlways\nAlways\nDriving\nNever\nThere\nOnly\nComing\nClose\nThen\nFurther\nAway\nInto\nThe\nBlinding\nWhite\nThat\nRuns\nFrom\nMe\nStill\nGoing\nOn\nAnd\nOn\nAnd\nOn\nTowards\nNothing\nBut\nThe\nEdge\nOf\nDay\nThat\nNever\nBreaks\nFor\nAnyone\nWho\nSeeks\nIt\nWhole\nIn\nOne\nGreat\nLeap\nOf\nSpeed\nThat\nCannot\nCatch\nWhat\nFleets\nBefore\nIt\nTouches\nDown\nIn\nAny\nPlace\nWhere\nShadows\nDare\nTo\nHide\nOr\nLingers\nLong\nEnough\nTo\nHold\nA\nMan\nWho\nRuns\nHis\nWhole\nLife\nLong\nTowards\nA\nDawn\nThat\nStays\nOutside\nHis\nReach\nForever\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd\nMore\nAnd", 2, "The tires hum a low and frantic prayer\nAgainst the asphalt stretching out to nowhere\nI leave the heavy shadows in my rearview glass\nWatching them dissolve as hours pass\nThe engine screams a song of desperate haste\nTrying to outrun the coming of the waste\nOf night that clings like smoke to every wheel\nBut I am burning hot, I know how it feels\nTo chase the edge where black turns into gray\nA promise made at the beginning of the day\nThe horizon glows a bruised and tender pink\nA distant shore on which I cannot sink\nIt pulls me forward with a magnetic lie\nWhile I watch the darkness die behind\nYet as I rush to meet the golden crest\nThe sun slips back, putting me to the test\nNo matter how I speed or how I drive\nThe light remains just barely alive\nBeyond the reach of hands and steering wheels\nA dream that only time and motion steals\nSo I will run until the tank runs dry\nChasing a dawn that never says goodbye\nLeaving the dark but never catching sight\nOf the morning that refuses to be mine tonight", 6, "The tires hum a frantic song against the black\nAs I push the pedal past the point of return\nLeaving the shadows of yesterday to rot in the rearview\nWhile the horizon glows with a promise I cannot touch\nThe engine screams in protest at the speed of my longing\nChasing a dawn that runs as fast as I do\nEvery mile gained is a mile lost by the light\nIt retreats just as the stars begin to fade\nA golden edge that never quite meets the ground\nI am a ghost driving through the cooling dark\nBound for a morning that refuses to arrive\nRunning until the fuel runs dry and the wheels stop spinning\nStill staring at a sun that will not rise for me\nForever racing toward the edge of the world\nWhere the night ends but the day never begins", 6, "The engine hums a low and hungry prayer\nAgainst the velvet weight of endless night\nI press the gas until the world dissolves\nTo streaks of shadow fleeing from my sight\n\nThe rearview mirror holds a ghostly gray\nWhere stars have faded into nothingness\nBut in the east a promise starts to glow\nA burning line I swear I can possess\n\nMy tires sing upon the asphalt road\nChasing the dawn that pulls me like a tide\nYet every mile I gain, it slips away\nA golden lie where hope and distance hide\n\nThe sun climbs higher, mocking my pursuit\nWhile darkness stays behind, a heavy cloak\nI run toward the light that never comes\nForever chasing what the morning broke", 6, "The tires hum a frantic song against the black,\nA blur of streetlights stretching into lines,\nI push the pedal down to make it break,\nTo outrun shadows that refuse to fade.\n\nThe rearview mirror holds a heavy night,\nWhere stars are cold and distant, out of reach,\nBut in my chest, a fire burns so bright,\nIt pulls me forward on this endless beach.\n\nI chase the gold that waits upon the hill,\nA promise painted on the eastern sky,\nYet every mile I gain, the light stands still,\nRetreating as I draw the horizon nigh.\n\nThe darkness falls away behind my wheels,\nAs if I shed a skin I cannot keep,\nBut dawn is just a ghost within my dreams,\nThat wakes before I can begin to sleep.\n\nSo on I drive through veins of asphalt gray,\nWith sun forever just beyond my hand,\nA runner chasing morning's fading day,\nAcross the edge of where the shadows stand.", 6, "The engine hums a low and hungry tune\nBeneath the velvet weight of endless night\nI press the pedal to the floor too soon\nAnd chase the fading rim of stolen light\n\nThe shadows stretch like fingers made of tar\nThat claw at tires spinning on the black\nBut I am moving faster than they are\nWith no intention of turning back\n\nThe horizon bleeds a faint and distant gold\nA promise written in the morning sky\nYet every mile that I have boldly told\nJust makes the dawn seem further, closer, why\n\nIt is a ghost that runs ahead of me\nAcross the curve of this unending sphere\nA beacon for the lost and desperate free\nThat vanishes whenever I draw near\n\nSo let the darkness fall behind my wheels\nLet night dissolve into the retreating rear\nI will not stop until the sun reveals\nA truth that keeps its distance, cold and clear", 7, "The engine hums a tune against the deep,\nA silver streak across the velvet void,\nWhere shadows cling to make the mountains sleep,\nAnd silence is the only thing employed.\n\nI push the pedal until stars rewrite,\nThe path ahead becomes a blur of gray,\nFor every turn I make into the light,\nIs met with dusk that steals my break of day.\n\nThe sun awaits above the rising rim,\nA promise written in the morning gold,\nYet as I chase this distant, golden hymn,\nThe horizon turns and makes me run so bold.\n\nI leave the tangled night beneath my wheels,\nIts heavy chains unraveling behind,\nBut still the dawn retreats what now it feels,\nA ghost within the pattern of my mind.\n\nSo on I ride through corridors of blue,\nWith eyes fixed tight upon the fading dark,\nUntil the endless chase begins anew,\nAnd I become the spark within the spark.", 7, "The rewrite expands into expand rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 7], [478, "train", "The Other by Ted Hughes", "Ted Hughes", "A poem about a husband and wife exchanging emotional possessions \u2014 smiles, talent, happiness, and hubris \u2014 until, upon her death, she takes all remaining smiles with her.", "She had too much so with a smile you\ntook some.\nOf everything she had you had\nAbsolutely nothing, so you took some.\nAt first, just a little.\n\nStill she had so much she made you feel\nYour vacuum, which nature abhorred,\nSo you took your fill, for nature's sake.\nBecause her great luck made you feel unlucky\nYou had redressed the balance, which meant\nNow you had some too, for yourself.\nAs seemed only fair. Still her ambition\nClaimed the natural right to screw you up\nLike a crossed out page, lossed into a basket.\nSomebody, on behalf of the gods,\nHad to correct that hubris.\nA little touch of hatred steadied the nerves.\n\nEverything she had won, the happiness of it,\nYou collected\nAs your compensation\nFor having lost. Which left her absolutely\nNothing. Even her life was\nTrapped in the heap you took. She had nothing.\nToo late you saw what had happened.\nIt made no difference that she was dead.\nNow that you had all she had ever had\nYou had much too much.\nOnly you\nSaw her smile, as she took some.\nAt first, just a little.\u201d", "He gave her his smile from the morning light\nAnd she returned a talent for singing soft and low\nHe traded his happiness, a heavy gold coin\nFor her hubris, sharp as a winter snow\n\nShe took his laughter when the house was still\nAnd he accepted her pride to fill the empty space\nThey bartered joy like merchants in a market\nMoving grace from one to another's face\n\nBut when the silence came to claim her breath\nAnd the final thread of life began to fray\nShe gathered every smile he had ever lent\nAnd took them all to keep on that faraway day\n\nNow he stands alone with only talent left\nA voice that sings to no one but the air\nWith happiness gone and hubris turned to dust\nHe searches for a grin that is not there", "He offered her his winning talent\nfrom pic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic 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\u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013\npic \u2013", 1, "He offered her his talent first\nA clumsy violin string\nShe laughed and returned a smile\nBright enough to blind the spring\nThen came his happiness\nHeavy as a wedding ring\nShe tucked it in her pocket\nWhile he watched her heartstrings sing\nHis hubris grew most sharp\nA sword of self-import\nShe asked him for all of it\nTo see if he had any port\nHe gave her everything\nExcept the last few laughs\nShe held them close and warm\nLike winter snow or autumn grass\nBut when the breath went still\nAnd silence filled the room\nShe opened up her hands\nAnd swept away the gloom\nShe took the joy she bought\nShe took the borrowed grace\nShe took the very last\nOf all his smiling face\nLeaving him with hollow bones\nWhere once a husband stood\nSearching through an empty house\nFor one more mood\nThere are no smiles left here\nOnly the dust and years\nShe kept them all\nBehind her tears\nShe kept them all\nBehind her years\nShe took the very last\nOf all his smiling years\nLeaving him\nWith none\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone\nNone", 2, "He gave her his first smile\na clumsy thing of tooth and light\nshe took it with a laugh\nand stored it in her pocket\nwhere he had none to borrow back.\n\nShe offered him her talent\nthe way she could bend the world\nto fit a song or a story\nhe kept it close\nuntil his own hands grew still\nand he wondered how to play\nwithout her notes.\n\nHe handed over happiness\nheavy as a stone\nbright as a summer noon\nshe wore it like a coat\nwhile he shivered in the gray\nof days that felt too long\nto bear alone.\n\nThen came the hubris\nhis pride, sharp and jagged\nthat he thought he knew the way\nshe laughed and took it all\nsaying it was hers to hold\nnow that he had nothing left\nbut empty space and time.\n\nYears passed in quiet trade\nuntil the breath grew thin\nand she looked at him\nwith eyes that held the end\nof every joy they shared.\n\nShe reached out one last time\nnot for his hand\nbut for the air between them\nand gathered up the smiles\nevery single one\nfrom the first clumsy gift\nto the last silent gasp.\n\nShe walked away\ntaking the brightness\nleaving him behind\nin a house of perfect\nunsmiling dark.", 5, "He gave her his talent first,\na clumsy gift of wood and song,\nand she returned a quiet smile\nto warm the cold and empty room.\n\nShe offered him her happiness,\na bright and heavy golden coin,\nhe traded back his hubris then,\nthinking himself a king of stone.\n\nThey bartered through the passing years,\nhis laughter for her gentle grace,\nher patience for his stubborn pride,\nuntil the scale began to shake.\n\nBut when the breath finally left her lips,\nand silence filled the hollow space,\nshe gathered up the final smiles\nthat lived within his weary face.\n\nShe took them all, every single one,\nthe past, the present, and the new,\nleaving him with only grief\nand nothing left to trade or do.", 6, "He gave her his talent first, a quiet song\nTo fill the silence of their empty home,\nAnd she returned a smile so bright and long\nIt chased away the shadows from the room.\n\nHe traded hubris for her gentle grace,\nA heavy crown exchanged for light and air,\nShe took his pride to clear the crowded space,\nAnd left him with a happiness so rare.\n\nThey bartered joy for years that slipped away,\nThe currency of love they spent so free,\nUntil the final night when she would stay\nNo longer in the world where he must be.\n\nShe whispered then as coldness touched her skin,\n\"I'll take the rest,\" she said with fading breath,\n\"The smiles you saved, the ones kept deep within,\nAre mine to carry past the gate of death.\"\n\nAnd now he walks through days devoid of light,\nWith all the talent, pride, and joy intact,\nBut not a single smile remains tonight,\nFor she has taken every last one back.", 7, "He gave her his first smile on a Tuesday morning,\nA quiet thing to warm the cold kitchen air,\nAnd she returned it with a talent for singing,\nA voice that could make the silence repair.\n\nThey traded happiness like coins in a jar,\nCounting the joy until the glass overflowed,\nBut he kept a heavy, hidden hubris inside,\nA pride that no gentle word ever showed.\n\nShe took his hubris one stormy night,\nSaying it was too heavy for him to bear,\nExchanging it for a lifetime of laughter,\nLeaving him lighter, stripped of his care.\n\nYears turned into seasons, then dust, then stillness,\nThe house grew quiet as the light faded slow,\nUntil the moment her breath left her body,\nAnd the final transaction began to unfold.\n\nShe looked at him with eyes that were closing,\nAnd whispered a promise before she was gone,\nThat every smile left, every laugh and every grin,\nWould travel with her when the day was done.\n\nSo now he sits in the hollow of evening,\nWith no talent left, no happiness near,\nJust the weight of a pride he can no longer hold,\nAnd the terrible knowledge that smiles disappear.", 6, "He gave her his talent, a clumsy thing of wood and string,\nAnd she returned a smile that made the winter sun feel spring.\nShe traded happiness for hubris, proud and sharp and bright,\nSo he could wear the crown while she held back the night.\n\nThey bartered quiet moments, they swapped their deepest fears,\nUntil the balance shifted through the turning of the years.\nThe hubris faded slowly, the talent turned to rust,\nBut smiles remained the currency beneath the gathering dust.\n\nThen silence took the house when she let go her final breath,\nAnd with her went the laughter that had saved them from the depth.\nNo smile is left to give now, no echo in the hall,\nFor she took every remaining grin to answer death's long call.", 6, "I gave you my smile, the quiet kind that breaks at dawn,\nYou traded me your talent, a song I'd never write alone.\n\nI offered up my hubris, the heavy crown I wore so tight,\nYou gave me purest happiness to make the dark feel light.\n\nWe bartered through the seasons until the trade was done,\nUntil I held your gentleness beneath a fading sun.\n\nThen silence took its final turn, the breath within you ceased,\nAnd with her final closing eye, the contract now release.\n\nShe left this world entirely, but first made one demand:\nTo take what's left of every smile across this weary land.", 6, "Rew rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [501, "ultra_held_out", "Love is\u2026 by Adrian Henri", "Adrian Henri", "\"A poem about defining love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\"\n\nWait, let me redo this in progressive tense starting with \"A poem about...\":\n\n\"A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\"", "Love is...\n\nLove is feeling cold in the back of vans\n\nLove is a fanclub with only two fans\n\nLove is walking holding paintstained hands\n\nLove is.\n\nLove is fish and chips on winter nights\n\nLove is blankets full of strange delights\n\nLove is when you don't put out the light\n\nLove is\n\nLove is the presents in Christmas shops\n\nLove is when you're feeling Top of the Pops\n\nLove is what happens when the music stops\n\nLove is\n\nLove is white panties lying all forlorn\n\nLove is pink nightdresses still slightly warm\n\nLove is when you have to leave at dawn\n\nLove is\n\nLove is you and love is me\n\nLove is prison and love is free\n\nLove's what's there when you are away from me\n\nLove is...", "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\nIt is the way you hand me coffee before I ask for it\nThe silence that does not need filling while we read on opposite sides of the room\nIt is finding a hair tie on my wrist that I forgot to take off\nAnd the shared laugh over a burnt piece of toast at seven in the morning\nLove is the quiet act of remembering how you take your tea\nIt is the gentle nudge when my shoulders are too tight with worry\nIt is the text message sent just to say I saw a bird that reminded me of you\nIt is the patience held during a long drive when the radio breaks down\nIt is washing the dishes after you have cooked, without being asked\nIt is the way we fit together like puzzle pieces worn smooth by time\nNot in grand gestures or fireworks, but in the steady rhythm of breathing the same air\nIt is choosing each other again and again in the mundane light of day", "A poem about\nlearning that loving\nis less about grand gestures\nblocking out the news\nof otherwise worrying days\nand more about\nnot killing spiders\nby jumping back\nbut killing\nthat sympathetic impulse\nlater\nwhen nobody else\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse\nelse", 1, "A poem about\ntracing the edges of affection\nnot in grand declarations\nbut in the way a spoon\nis passed silently\nacross a kitchen table\nwhile morning light\nfilters through dusty blinds\nabout how listening\nbecomes an active verb\nwhen one partner stops talking\nto hear the other\nunspool their worries\nabout buying two toothbrushes\nthat sit side by side\nin a ceramic jar\nabout learning that patience\nlooks like folding\na shirt that was wrinkled\nby bad news\nabout finding the universe\ncollapsed and returned\ninside a note\nleft on a bathroom counter\nabout the heavy silence\nof sitting together\nwatching television\nthat neither of them\nreally cares about\nabout the definition\nshifting from a sudden storm\nto the steady drip\nof a faucet\nbeing noticed\nand tended to\nabout realizing\nthat loving someone\nis mostly\ndoing\nall these\nsmall\nthings\nover\nand\nover\nagain\nwithout\nexpecting\nan\napplause\nonly\nthe\ncomfort\nof\nknowing\nthey\nare\nthere\nto\nnotice\ntoo\nabout\nthe\ndefinition\nbeing\nbuilt\nbrick\nby\ninvisible\nbrick\nin\nthe\nmortar\nof\nevery\nordinary\nday\nthat\npasses\nby\nholding\nhands\nor\nnot\nholding\nthem\nbut\nalways\nbeing\nready\nto\nreach\nout\nwhen\nthe\nroad\ngets\nrough\nabout\nlove\nnot\nbeing\na\nfinished\npicture\nbut\nthe\nconstant\nmotion\nof\nlooking\nat\neach\nother\nwith\nfresh\neyes\neven\nafter\nyears\nof\nseeing\nthe\nsame\nface\nabout\nfinding\nhome\nnot\nin\na\nplace\nbut\nin\nthe\nrhythm\nof\ntwo\nheartbeats\nsyncing\nup\nduring\na\nlong\nwalk\nabout\nthe\nmany\ndefinitions\ncolliding\nand\nmerging\ninto\none\nsimple\ntruth\nthat\nlove\nis\nliving\nit\nall\nright\nnow\nin\nthe\nnext\nminute\nand\nthe\nnext\nmoment\nof\ngetting\nup\nto\npour\nmore\ncoffee\nor\nclear\naway\nthe\ndishes\nor\nsimply\nsaying\ngood\nnight\nwith\na\nkiss\nthat\nsays\neverything\nelse\nhas\nalready\nbeen\nsaid\nby\nthe\nway\nwe\nlive\nour\ndays\ntogether\nside\nby\nside\nworking\nthrough\nthe\nmundane\nto\nfind\nthe\nmagic\nhidden\nthere\nabout\nhow\nlove\ndefines\nitself\nby\nnever\nstopping\nits\nwork\nof\ncaring\nfor\nthe\nlittle\ndetails\nthat\notherwise\nwould\nslip\naway\nlike\nwater\nbetween\nfingers\nabout\nthe\nendless\nproject\nof\nloving\nbeing\nthe\nmost\nimportant\nthing\nwe\never\ndo\nabout\nit\nbeing\npresent\ntense\nalways\nalways\nalways\nhappening\nright\nhere\nin\nthis\nroom\nwith\nthese\nsounds\nand\nthese\ntouches\nthat\nmean\nmore\nthan\nany\npoem\ncould\ncapture\nexcept\nperhaps\nby\ntrying\nto\nsay\nthat\nit\nis\nall\nof\nthis\nand\nnone\nof\nit\nat\nonce\njust\nthe\nfeeling\nof\nbeing\nknown\nby\nanother\nwho\nsees\nyou\nclearly\nand\nchooses\nto\nstay\nclose\nwhile\nthe\nworld\nspins\non\noutside\nabout\nhow\nthat\nchoice\ngets\nrenamed\nevery\nsingle\nday\nby\nthe\nsmall\ngestures\nthat\nannounce\nit\nwithout\nusing\nwords\nabout\nthe\ndefinition\nbeing\nfluid\nas\nwater\nbut\nstrong\nas\nrock\nabout\nit\nbeing\nfound\nin\nthe\nspace\nbetween\ntwo\npeople\nwhere\nnothing\nelse\nexists\nbut\ntheir\nshared\nhistory\nand\ntheir\ncommon\nfuture\nabout\nlove\nbeing\ndefined\nby\nthe\nquiet\ncertainty\nthat\ncomes\nfrom\nhaving\nlived\nmany\nsmall\ndays\ntogether\nand\nknowing\nthat\nno\nmatter\nwhat\ncomes\nnext\nthey\nwill\nfigure\nit\nout\ntogether\nabout\nthat\nknowing\nbeing\nthe\nonly\ndefinition\nthat\nactually\nmatters\nin\nthe\nend\nabout\nit\nbeing\nenough\nabout\nit\nbeing\neverything\nabout\nit\nbeing\n", 2, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\nIt is not always a grand gesture or a shouted vow\nBut the quiet way you hand me coffee before I ask\nThe steam rising between us while the news plays softly\nLove is the space left on the pillow when you wake up early\nAnd the careful fold of your shirt hanging on the chair\nIt lives in the shared silence that never feels heavy\nIn the knowing glance across a crowded room\nThat says I see you even when no one else does\nIt is the patience in waiting for the kettle to boil\nThe gentle touch on a shoulder after a long day\nThe laughter that bubbles up over burnt toast\nFinding home in the routine of brushing teeth together\nIn the way we learn each other's moods by the light\nLove is building a life brick by invisible brick\nIn the ordinary rhythm of our days\nWhere every small thing becomes a promise kept\nWithout ever needing to be spoken aloud", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\nIt is the way you hand me the coffee before I ask,\nsteam rising between us in the quiet kitchen light.\nIt is the silence that does not feel empty but full,\nsitting side by side while reading different books.\nIt is noticing when your step slows down to match mine,\na silent agreement on the pavement of a busy street.\nIt is the laundry folded just how you like it,\nthe specific way the socks are paired and placed away.\nIt is laughing at a joke from three years ago\nwhile washing dishes with water running over our hands.\nIt is the shared glance across a crowded room\nthat says everything without a single word being spoken.\nIt is remembering how you take your tea,\nthe exact amount of honey, the temperature of the cup.\nIt is holding space for a bad day without trying to fix it,\njust sitting there as a steady anchor in the storm.\nIt is the worn spot on the armchair where we both sit,\nwearing down the fabric with the weight of our days together.\nLove is not always the grand gesture or the sweeping vow,\nbut the thousand tiny threads woven into the daily cloth,\nholding us close in the ordinary rhythm of living.", 5, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\n\nIt is the way you hand me coffee\nbefore I even wake to ask for it,\nsteam rising like a quiet promise\nin the gray light of morning.\n\nIt is finding your sock on the floor\nand not throwing it away,\nbut placing it gently back beside the shoe\nas if tucking in a sleeping child.\n\nIt is the silence that does not need filling\nwhen we sit on opposite ends of the couch,\nreading different books but sharing the same air,\nthe soft turning of pages a rhythm we know by heart.\n\nIt is remembering how you take your tea,\ntwo sugars, a splash of milk,\nand making it without being asked,\na small ritual of care repeated daily.\n\nIt is the glance across a crowded room\nthat says I see you, I am here,\nand the way our shoulders brush\nwhile walking down the street,\na constant, gentle anchor.\n\nIt is washing the dishes together,\nyou drying while I rinse,\npassing plates like gifts,\nlaughing at a joke only we understand.\n\nIt is holding the door open,\nnot out of habit, but out of thought,\nwaiting just a second longer\nto make sure you are close enough to follow.\n\nIt is the definition found not in grand gestures,\nbut in the texture of these ordinary days,\nwoven tight with threads of patience,\nattention, and the quiet certainty\nthat tomorrow will be another chance\nto do these small things again.", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\n\nIt is the way the coffee mug warms your hand\nbefore you even take a sip,\nthe quiet hum of the refrigerator filling the silence\nwhile we read separate books on the same couch.\n\nIt is finding the missing sock under the bed\nand folding it into the drawer without being asked,\nit is the shared glance across a crowded room\nthat says everything we do not need to speak.\n\nLove is the gentle correction of a crooked frame,\nthe soft laugh when toast burns,\nthe patience held like a steady breath\nwhile waiting for the other to finish their sentence.\n\nIt is the umbrella tilting toward you in the rain,\nthe blanket pulled up over sleeping shoulders,\nthe memory of how you take your tea\nkept safe in the back of a busy mind.\n\nIt is not always grand gestures or sweeping vows,\nbut the accumulation of tiny, unspoken promises,\nthe daily choice to stay, to listen, to hold,\nbuilding a home out of ordinary hours.", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\n\nIt is the coffee cup left on the counter, still warm\nbecause you knew I would wake up thirsty before the sun rose.\nIt is the quiet hum of a shared silence in the car,\nwhere no words are needed to fill the space between us.\n\nLove is finding the missing sock under the bed,\nand leaving it there just so I will search for it with you.\nIt is the way your hand finds my knee at a red light,\na steady anchor when the traffic turns into chaos.\n\nWe define it by the grocery list written in messy scrawl,\nthe specific brand of tea we both pretend to like,\nthe argument over whose turn it is to take out the trash,\nending in laughter that dissolves the tension like mist.\n\nIt is watching rain streak the window while we fold laundry,\nturning chore into ritual, dust into something sacred.\nIt is the gentle correction of my grammar,\ndelivered with a smile that says I am listening.\n\nLove lives in the tired eyes meeting across the room,\nin the blanket pulled tight against the drafty floor,\nin the promise kept without being spoken aloud,\nin the ordinary magic of simply being here, together.", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\n\nIt is the quiet hum beneath the coffee maker's wake,\nThe shared silence across a cluttered table where words fade into warmth.\nIt is finding your sock tangled with mine inside the drum,\nAnd pausing just to unravel the knot without complaint.\n\nLove is rewriting the script until the rewrite feels like truth,\nIs the gentle correction of grammar whispered against sleep,\nIs the umbrella tilting so rain finds my left shoulder, not yours.\n\nIt is the specific light that changes color when you walk into the room,\nTransforming gray into gold simply by existing within it.\nIt is making space for the expanders of the chest,\nFor the expanding list of grocery needs written on napkins.\n\nIt is remembering how you take your tea without being told,\nIs the check-in text sent because a cloud made you think of me.\nIt is the rhythm found in mismatched socks walking down the street,\nIs the safety net woven from threads of mundane conversation.\n\nSo let us write this story not in grand crescendos, but in whispers,\nIn the dust motes dancing above the rewrite draft,\nIn the simple act of staying, again and again,", 3, "Rewriting rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [505, "ultra_held_out", "Facing It by Yusef Komunyakaa", "Yusef Komunyakaa", "\"A poem about a veteran standing at the Vietnam Memorial, slipping between past and present as the wall's reflective surface merges the mundane interactions of peacetime with the permanent, lived horrors of war.\"", "My black face fades, hiding inside the black granite. I said I wouldn't dammit: No tears. I'm stone. I'm flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me like a bird of prey, the profile of night slanted against morning. I turn this way\u2014the stone lets me go. I turn that way\u2014I'm inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial\nagain, depending on the light to make a difference. I go down the 58,022 names, half-expecting to find my own in letters like smoke. I touch the name Andrew Johnson; I see the booby trap's white flash. Names shimmer on a woman's blouse but when she walks away the names stay on the wall. Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's wings cutting across my stare. The sky. A plane in the sky. A white vet's image floats closer to me, then his pale eyes look through mine. I'm a window. He's lost his right arm inside the stone. In the black mirror a woman\u2019s trying to erase names: No, she's brushing a boy's hair.", "The polished black stone drinks the morning light\nAnd swallows the tourist's camera flash,\nA woman in a bright yellow dress leans close\nTo read a name that isn't hers,\nWhile behind her glass reflection, the jungle breathes\nThrough the silence of a DC park.\n\nMy hand touches the cold granite, smooth as skin,\nBut the chill rises up my arm to find\nThe humidity of a place where time stands still,\nWhere the air tastes of rust and rotting leaves,\nAnd the laughter of a child skipping rope\nFades into the crackle of distant mortar fire.\n\nI see my own face superimposed on the names,\nYounger now, older then, eyes wide with fear,\nAs a couple argues softly about lunch plans,\nTheir voices thinning into the hum of helicopters\nThat never seem to leave the treetops above.\n\nThe wall holds them all, the dead and the living,\nMerging the coffee cup in a stranger's hand\nWith the empty canteen hanging from my belt,\nBlurring the line between a quiet Sunday walk\nAnd the long march through mud that never dries.\n\nFor a moment, the present cracks open wide,\nAnd I am standing there again, waiting for dawn,\nWhile the world moves on around me, unaware,\nReflecting a war that ended years ago\nIn the endless, perfect mirror of the stone.", "He brushes a child\u00eds hair\nthen notices his hands shaking\ncovered not in hair\nbut killing \u2013\nrich earth \u2013\n \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 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\u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013 \u2013", 1, "He brushes his hand against the black\nwhere names are etched in sharp white lines\nand sees his own grey hair\nwarping over dates from nineteen sixty-nine\nthe tourist laughter of children\nclattering like falling shells\nbut hollowed out by Sunday picnics\nwhile he tastes the copper tang\nof a jungle morning that never ended\na man asks for directions\nhis face pressed flat\nagainst the memory of a boy who died\nasking for water\ntwo realities slide\nover one another\nlike oil on rain\nthe woman buying ice cream\nbecomes the medevac radio\nstatic screaming\nthen silence\njust a passerby\nwho stops\nwho touches\nwho slips\nback\nout\nof\ntime\nto stand\nonce more\nin\nthat\nlong\ngreen\ndark\nbefore\nreturning\nto\nthe\nbright\nhard\nedge\nof\nnow\nwhere\nhe\nis\nwhole\nbut\nnever\nquite\nthere\nanymore\nlooking\nat\nhimself\nlooking\nat\nthem\nall\nstill\ncoming\nhome\nfrom\nelsewhere\nwhile\nshadows\nstretch\nlong\nover\nthe\ngrass\nholding\nboth\nworlds\ntightly\ntogether\nwithout\na\nsound\nexcept\nthe\nwind\nmoving\nthrough\ntrees\nthat\nwere\nnot\nburned\ndown\nhere\nonly\nelsewhere\nonly\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\nalways\nthen\n", 1, "The black granite drinks the Washington sky\nand I see a tourist in a bright yellow shirt\ntaking a selfie with his daughter\nwhile my fingers trace a name that smells of wet earth\nand burning rubber\nthe girl laughs at a joke about her hair\nbut her reflection ripples into a boy\nwho never grew up to laugh\nstanding in the mud where the air tastes like copper\nI reach out to smooth the stone\nand touch the cold sweat on a forehead\nthat stopped sweating years ago\na man in a business suit asks for directions\nhis voice overlaps with the radio static\ncalling out coordinates over the treeline\nthe wall holds both the quiet Sunday and the screaming Tuesday\nin the same dark glass\nwhere the living walk lightly\nand the dead stand still\nwaiting for someone to remember\nhow the light hits the leaves\nbefore it turns to fire\nI step back\nand the surface clears\nshowing only my own face\naged and trembling\nsuperimposed over the names\nof those who were young\nwhen they died\nwhile the tourists move on\nunaware they are walking through ghosts\nor that the ground beneath their sneakers\nis the only thing holding the war\nfrom spilling out\ninto the peace\nthey took for granted\nI touch the wall one last time\nfeeling the vibration of a helicopter\nthumping in the distance\nthat isn't there\nonly the wind\nonly the silence\nonly the weight\nof everything\nthat happened\nright here\nand nowhere else\nat all", 2, "The black stone drinks the morning light\nand spits back a man in khaki slacks\nwho bought his coffee on the corner\nwhile a boy in jungle greens\nstumbles out of the reflection\nholding a radio that never stops screaming\n\nA tourist touches the name and asks for directions\nher voice is soft, a summer breeze\nbut under her palm the granite warms\nto the fever heat of a humid night\nwhere the air tasted of cordite and wet earth\nand every shadow hid a mouth ready to bite\n\nHe sees his own hand reach out\nto steady a stranger's stroller\nyet in the glass it grips a rifle\nsweaty and slick with rain\nthe mundane chatter of a picnic blanket\ndissolves into the static crackle of a dead channel\nas the wall pulls him down its glossy throat\n\nTwo worlds collide in the sheen\nthe quiet click of a camera shutter\nmerging with the wet thud of a boot sinking\ninto mud that holds the weight of a thousand names\nhe blinks and the present rushes back\nbut the ghost of the past remains\netched not just in the stone\nbut in the way he walks away\ncarrying the silence of a war that never ends\ninside the noise of a city that forgot how to listen", 2, "The granite is cool against his palm\na mirror holding the sky and the tourists\nwho walk in pairs, laughing at a joke\nabout the humidity or the price of ice cream\ntheir voices bright and unburdened by the air\nthat once tasted of cordite and wet rot\n\nHe sees a young man in a red shirt\ntracing a name with a pencil on paper\nand for a second the graphite line bleeds\ninto the trench where he crouched in mud\nthe laughter of the couple nearby dissolves\ninto the crackle of radio static\nand the sudden, sharp silence after the mortar\n\nHis reflection shows a face mapped with lines\nbut behind it, the wall stretches back\nto a jungle that never lets go\nwhere the green is too loud and the shadows move\nwith eyes that watch from the ferns\nwhile a child drops a coin into his hand\nthinking it is a game, a souvenir\nnot knowing the metal feels like shrapnel\nhot and heavy in a pocket full of dirt\n\nThe present ripples like water disturbed\nas a woman stops to wipe her tears\nher grief a quiet river flowing over stone\nmerging with the memory of a friend\nfalling forward into the red dust\nthe two images superimpose perfectly\nthe living touching the dead through glass\nuntil the wall is no longer black rock\nbut a window open to both times\nwhere the peace is thin as skin\nand the war is a permanent stain\nreflected in every smiling face\nthat passes by without looking down", 2, "The polished black stone drinks the afternoon sun\nAnd gives back a tourist's camera flash, a child's balloon,\nA woman checking her watch against the quiet air,\nWhile my boots remember the mud that never dried there.\n\nI reach out to trace a name carved deep and cold,\nBut my reflection shows a uniform of green, not old,\nAs the glass dissolves the line between then and now,\nWhere the silence is broken by the scream of a plow.\n\nThe couple holding hands becomes two men in a trench,\nSharing a cigarette while the jungle begins to stench,\nTheir laughter turns into the crackle of dry leaves,\nAnd the soft breeze shifts into the wind that weaves\n\nThrough bodies tangled where the river ran red,\nWhile a vendor sells water just steps from the dead.\nI see my own face young and terrified in the sheen,\nOverlaid with the gray suits and the clean, quiet scene.\n\nA mother reads a name aloud, her voice so clear,\nEchoing through the mist of a smoke-filled year,\nHer tears are my tears, falling on different ground,\nOne for a loss found, one for a life unbound.\n\nThe wall holds them all, the living and the gone,\nMerging the peace of today with the dawn of the dawn,\nUntil I am standing in both times at once,\nBridging the gap with the weight of the guns.", 3, "The polished black stone holds the sun too bright\nReflecting suits and ties, a tourist's laugh,\nA child pointing at the names written tight,\nWhile I stand here with ghosts inside my graph.\n\nMy hand touches the cool, smooth granite face,\nAnd suddenly the humidity returns,\nThe humid air replaces this clean place,\nWith smoke that burns until the lungs all churn.\n\nI see a mother wiping tears upon her cheek,\nBut in the glass, she wears a helmet green,\nHer voice is soft, yet echoes distinct and weak,\nLike rain on tin beneath a jungle scene.\n\nThe world moves on, a quiet Sunday stroll,\nWith coffee cups and phones held high above,\nYet through the mirror cracks, I hear the roll\nOf distant thunder that we used to love.\n\nThey walk right through me, strangers in the light,\nUnaware they tread where blood has soaked the ground,\nI merge with shadows fading into night,\nWhere silence is the only sound around.\n\nThe reflection shifts, the present starts to fade,\nAs static fills the air between us now,\nThe war is not a story that we made,\nIt is the sweat upon my furrowed brow.\n\nI pull my hand away from names so deep,\nThe glass reflects a man who isn't there,\nJust static noise within a heavy sleep,\nThat hangs like mist over the empty air.", 5, "The polished stone is deep as a riverbed,\nReflecting the neon hum of tourists above,\nA couple checking phones beneath the canopy,\nLaughing at a text message written just now.\n\nBut in that glass, the rain turns to mist,\nAnd the drone creates a static roar, replacing silence.\nI see my own face, unlined then, holding a rifle,\nWhile my reflection today checks for change make.\n\nA mother adjusts her scarf against the chill,\nHer shadow merges with the name carved deep.\nFor a heartbeat, the scarf becomes bandage, red and tight,\nAnd the check-in turnstile is the wire we cut.\n\nThey write their names on napkins, clean paper, smooth,\nRewriting corrections without fear.\nI rewrite the draft into the dirt, into smoke,\nInto the permanent echo that will not fade.\n\nThe sun breaks through the mist above the park,\nIlluminating families walking toward the exit.\nIn the mirror, I am still waiting for the patrol,\nMy hand extended to help a friend rise.\n\nThe gap closes until the stone is flesh again,\nUntil the quiet afternoon feels like a held breath.", 2, " polish polish polish write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write 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write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write", 1], [512, "train", "Bereft by Robert Frost", "Robert Frost", "\"A poem about a lonely speaker interpreting the wind, leaves, and darkening storm clouds as natural forces converging on him, aware of his solitude.\"", "Where had I heard this wind before\nChange like this to a deeper roar?\nWhat would it take my standing there for,\nHolding open a restive door,\nLooking down hill to a frothy shore?\nSummer was past and the day was past.\nSombre clouds in the west were massed.\nOut on the porch's sagging floor,\nLeaves got up in a coil and hissed,\nBlindly struck at my knee and missed.\nSomething sinister in the tone\nTold me my secret must be known:\nWord I was in the house alone\nSomehow must have gotten abroad,\nWord I was in my life alone,\nWord I had no one left but God.", "The wind does not blow past me,\nit leans in close to whisper names I have forgotten.\nLeaves skitter across the pavement like small, dry feet\nrushing to join the circle where I stand alone.\nAbove, the storm clouds bruise the sky into a heavy grey,\nconverging with a singular intent to drown this quiet spot.\nThey do not care for the world beyond this patch of earth,\nonly that I am here, exposed and waiting.\nEvery gust is a hand reaching out to claim the silence,\nevery rustle a voice insisting on my isolation.\nThe darkness gathers not as weather, but as a crowd,\nclosing in until there is no space left between the air and my skin.\nI am the center they orbit, the anchor for their rage,\na solitary point where the elements decide to meet.", "The edge blows hard\nnot killing\nbut searching\ndrawing a straight\nwhite line\nfrom nowhere\nto nowhere\nelse\nonly\nthat\nhair\nedge\nof\nmine\ntouches\nit\nthen\ngoes\nback\nout\nof\nreach\nwhile\ndead\nmaples\ncreak\nlow\nand\nflat\nlike\nrib\nedges\nopened\nby\nhands\nwho\nwent\naway\nlast\nweek\nor\nnext\ncentury\nno\nears\nto\nhear\nexcept\nthese\ntwo\nblocked\nby\nhair\nblocking\nthe\nnews\nof\nall\nelse\nup\nthere\nwhere\ngray\nbuttons\npush\nhard\non\nthe\nchin\nof\nsky\ncoming\ndown\ngetting\nbig\ngetting\nblack\ngetting\nnear\nlooking\nnot\nlooking\nnot\nknow\nabout\nnone\nelse\ncoming\nbesides\nthose\nthree\nitems\nthat\nknow\nwhen\none\ncomes\nwho\nhas\nhad\nwent\ngone\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent", 1, "The wind arrives not as a passerby\nbut as a hand reaching out to seize\nthe hollow space where another heart should be\nit whips the hair and drives a chill\nthat knows exactly who it seeks\nto freeze\nwhile leaves descend in frantic eddies\nnot falling by chance\nbut gathering in a sudden ring\nto block the road back home\nthey scrape the earth like fingers\ncounting off the years of silence\nand overhead\nthe darkening clouds\nheavy with water and ill intent\ndrift low\nblocking the last pale edge of light\nas if the sky itself\nhad grown impatient\nof watching one man stand\nquite still\nwhile all the elements\nconverge\nto witness\nonly him\nwho has nowhere else\nto go\nnow\nthat the world\nhas come\nto take\nits notice\nback\nagain\nin\nutter\ndark\nalone\nonce\nmore\nby\ndesign\nof\nnature\ncold\nand\nclear\nabout\nhis\nendless\nstate\nof\nbeing\nnone\nbeside\nhim\nthere\nto\nhear\nthe\ncoming\nof\nthe\nrain\nor\nknow\nwhy\nall\nof\nheaven\nleans\ndown\nlow\nto\npress\nagainst\nhis\nskin\nand\nsay\nthat\nhe\nis\nall\nthat\nstands\nbetween\nthe\nstorm\nand\nnothing\nelse\nat\nall\nexcept\nthe\nshout\nof\ngale\nand\nrush\nof\nwater\non\nthe\nground\nwhere\nno\nfoot\never\nreturned\nfrom\nsearch\nfor\nsomeone\nelse\nwho\nnever\nwas\nwho\nnever\ncame\nwho\nnever\nwill\nbe\nthere\nto\nshare\nthe\nfear\nof\nsuch\na\ngreat\nand\nsilent\ngathering\nof\nsky\nand\ntree\nand\nair\nthat\nknow\nhis\nname\ntoo\nwell\nto\nlet\nhim\nhide\nfrom\ntheir\nattentive\nweep\nthat\nfalls\nnot\nfor\nthe\nearth\nbut\nfor\nthe\nman\nwho\nstands\nawash\nin\nall\nof\nthis\nand\nknows\nthat\nhe\nis\ntruly\nhome\namong\nthe\nthings\nthat\nhave\nno\nheart\nto\nbreak\nbut\nonly\nforce\nto\npush\nhim\ndeeper\ninto\nself\nwhere\nevery\nleaf\nand\ncloud\nand\nbreeze\nconfirms\nthat\nhe\nis\nall\nthat\nlives\nor\nmoves\nor\nbreathes\nor\naches\nor\ndreams\nor\nweeps\nor\nprays\nor\nfails\nor\nends\nor\nbegins\nor\nstops\nor\nstarts\nor\ngoes\nor\nstays\nor\nvanishes\nor\nreturns\nor\nwaits\nor\nruns\nor\nhides\nor\nshows\nor\nasks\nor\nanswers\nnone\nof\nwhich\nmatter\nmuch\nwhen\nall\nthe\nworld\ncomes\ndown\nto\nstand\naround\none\nfigure\nsmall\nand\nstill\nand\nvery\nmuch\nafraid\nof\nbeing\nknown\nby\nsuch\nan\nempty\ncrowd\nof\nelements\nthat\ncare\ntoo\nmuch\nto\nleave\nhim\nbe\nbut\ncare\ntoo\nlittle\nto\nhold\nhim\nclose\nexcept\nto\nsqueeze\nhim\nflat\nagainst\nthe\npage\nof\nnight\nwhere\nonly\nhe\nappears\nin\nall\nthe\nblack\nand\nwhite\nof\neverything\nthat\npasses\nby\nand\nnever\nsays\ngoodbye\nbut\nsimply\ntakes\nits\nplace\nnext\nto\nhis\nown\nshadow\nlong\nand\nthin\nand\nvery\nhard\nto\nbear\nwhen\neveryone\nelse\nhas\nleft\nthe\nroom\nand\nclosed\nthe\ndoor\nbehind\nthem\nall\nto\nlet\nthe\nwind\ncome\nin\nand\nsee\nwhat\nelse\nthere\nmight\nbe\nthere\nbeside\nthe\nman\nwho\nhas\nbeen\nwaiting\nsince\nthe\nbeginning\nof\ntime\nfor\nsomething\nelse\nto\nenter\nbut\nfound\nonly\nmore\nof\nhim\nself\nreturn\nto\nmeet\nhis\ngaze\nwith\neyes\nof\ngrey\nand\nwet\nwith\ntears\nthat\nwere\nnot\nhis\nbut\nwere\nhis\nafter\nall\nbecause\nthere\nwas\nno\none\nelse\nto\ncry\nfor\nhim\nwhen\nall\nof", 3, "The wind arrives not as a breath but as a hand\nthat presses hard against the hollow of my chest\nto measure how much space remains for silence here\nwhere no other heartbeat answers back its call.\n\nThe leaves begin their frantic, dry applause\na chorus of brown hands clapping in the dark\nas if to celebrate the coming of the storm\nthat knows exactly where this lonely man has stood.\n\nAbove, the clouds are heavy with a purpose\nthey gather low and bruise the edge of sight\nconverging on the single point of me\nwho waits alone beneath their gathering weight.\n\nThere is no shelter in this open field\nno wall to break the force they all intend\nthe air grows thick with signals meant for one\nand I am left to read them all by myself.", 3, "The wind does not blow past but through me,\na hollow whistle in the ribs of my chest,\nas if the air itself knows where I stand\nand chooses to fill only this empty space.\n\nLeaves skitter like dry bones across the pavement,\ndriven by a hand that seeks no other touch,\nwhispering secrets of roots and rain\nto a listener who has forgotten how to speak.\n\nAbove, the clouds gather in a bruised procession,\nheavy with the weight of coming water,\ndarkening the sky until the light retreats\nleaving me as the only point of focus.\n\nThey converge here, these indifferent forces,\nnot to strike, but to acknowledge the silence,\npressing down on the one who waits alone\nwhile the world holds its breath for the storm.", 3, "The wind does not pass through but presses in,\nA cold hand testing the seam of my coat,\nAs if the air itself has learned my name\nAnd comes to claim a debt I did not know.\n\nAbove, the leaves turn their pale undersides up,\nNot dancing now, but falling in a slow descent,\nEach dry whisper a step closer to the ground,\nMimicking the silence where no one stands.\n\nDarkening clouds roll heavy and low,\nA bruised ceiling pressing down on the hill,\nThey gather with intent, a converging tide,\nTo swallow the space where only I remain.\n\nThere is no shelter in this open field,\nNo other shadow to share the coming rain,\nJust the storm's approach and the hollow chest,\nWatching the world close in on me alone.", 6, "The wind does not blow past but through,\na hollow whistle in my ribs,\ntelling me the air has no one else to hold.\n\nLeaves detach and spiral down,\nnot dancing, but fleeing a silence I keep,\nscattering like thoughts I cannot catch.\n\nAbove, the storm clouds bruise the sky,\nheavy with a rain that seeks only this ground,\nconverging on the single point where I stand.\n\nThey gather close, a darkening circle,\npressing in until the world is just this ache,\nand I am the center of their quiet, hungry weight.", 3, "The wind does not pass through, it circles tight,\nA cold hand pressing against my chest,\nAs if the air itself has lost its flight\nAnd seeks the only quiet place to rest.\n\nAbove, the leaves detach in rustling fear,\nNot falling down but turning toward me,\nA chorus of dry voices drawing near,\nTo whisper what I cannot make them see.\n\nNow storm clouds gather, heavy, bruised, and deep,\nThey lower like a curtain meant to bind,\nConverging where the lonely shadows sleep,\nTo claim this single spot within their mind.\n\nNo path remains for light to break the gray,\nJust nature closing in with soft intent,\nTo keep the silence that I made today,\nUntil the storm is gone and I am spent.", 6, "The wind does not whisper, it presses against my chest,\na cold tide rising to check the make of my ribs.\nAbove, the leaves detach from their green promises,\nturning into dry coins scattered across my path,\ncounting out the change I do not possess.\n\nDarkening clouds roll in like heavy curtains closing,\ndrafts beneath them tightening until the sky is a single eye.\nThey gather here, above this patch of ground,\npulling the humidity into a sphere around me.\n\nI am the axis upon which they turn, the quiet point.\nNo shadow expands faster than this solitude.", 2, "The wind rewrite write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write 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write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write", 1], [514, "ultra_held_out", "Sleeping in the Forest by Mary Oliver", "Mary Oliver", "A poem about a speaker venturing into the forest at night, losing herself in the darkness and sounds of nature's small kingdoms, and transcending her everyday humanity.", "I thought the earth\nremembered me, she\ntook me back so tenderly, arranging\nher dark skirts, her pockets\nfull of lichens and seeds. I slept\nas never before, a stone\non the riverbed, nothing\nbetween me and the white fire of the stars\nbut my thoughts, and they floated\nlight as moths among the branches\nof the perfect trees. All night\nI heard the small kingdoms breathing\naround me, the insects, and the birds\nwho do their work in the darkness. All night\nI rose and fell, as if in water, grappling\nwith a luminous doom. By morning\nI had vanished at least a dozen times\ninto something better.", "The path dissolves beneath my feet\nas moonlight fails to pierce the veil\nof ancient boughs and tangled sheets\nwhere shadow weaves its heavy sail\n\nA cricket's song becomes a drum\nthat beats against my human bone\nthe mossy floor, a kingdom come\nwhere tiny empires claim their throne\n\nI feel the bark beneath my skin\nand taste the damp and rotting air\nthe frantic pulse of life within\nis stripped away with every prayer\n\nNo longer bound by clock or name\nor worries forged in city light\nI am the fern, the silent flame\nthat burns alone within the night\n\nMy breath is wind through hollow reeds\nmy thoughts are roots that drink the dark\na seed that nature now indeed\nhas planted deep within her ark", "The edge of home dissolved\nas penn dipped low\ndrawing all courtesy from\nedge-edge-edge\nof things\nthat grew\nnot by\nsize\nbut\nby\nsecret\nroot\nanda\nthen\ncame\nthe\nlow\nrumble\nof\nants\ncarrying\nstars\nback\nfrom\nnext\nyear\nto\nlast\nwent\nout\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc", 1, "The streetlamp fades behind a wall of pine\nAs I step off the edge of paved concern\nWhere shadows stretch and roots begin to twine\nTo see exactly how much things unseen\nHave multiplied while I was looking down\nAt gravel paths and worrying about rent\nHere silence wears a heavier, older crown\nAnd every breath tastes wet and indigent\nA cricket saws a blade of grass in two\nWhile spiders weave their arithmetic\nOf dew and hunger in a morning hue\nThat nobody besides these insects likes\nMy skin grows thin as bark against the air\nNo longer thinking thoughts of self or home\nBut listening to the beetle everywhere\nWho rules his kingdom in a hollow loam\nI am not woman walking through the wood\nNor man nor child with worries sharp and bright\nOnly a tremor where the darkness stood\nDissolving in the chorus of the night\nTranscended by the small and busy dead\nWho live more fully than I ever did\nBy all the ways that blood has been unsped\nLeaving my heavy human heart inhibited\nTo be a leaf that falls without a sound\nTo be a root that drinks the freezing ground\nTo be no one who anywhere is found\nExcept in all the earth's uncounted pound\nof life that pulses in the dark\nBefore the stars have learned to leave their mark\nOn anything that bears a mortal arc\nOr asks for reasons why it had to start\nto fall apart\nand then\nbegin\nagain\nas\npart\nof\nall\nthat\nhas\nno\nend\nbut\njust\nthe\nnight\nthat\nnever\nasks\nfor\nmore\nthan\nbeing\nthere\nonce\nmore\namong\nthe\nferns\nand\nfears\nthat\ngrow\nwhere\nnone\nhave\nbeen\nbefore\nwho\nknow\nno\nself\nnor\nname\nnor\nlore\nonly\nthe\nwet\nand\ndark\nand\nwhole\nthat\ntakes\naway\nthe\naching\nof\nthe\nsoul\nby\ngiving\nback\nthe\nearth\nto\nall\nwho\ncrawl\nor\nfly\nor\ncall\nor\nfall\nin\nlove\nwith\nnothing\nelse\nat\nall\nexcept\nthe\nblack\nthat\nholds\nus\nall\ntogether\nin\nits\nsilent\nnet\nof\nhair\nthat\nwe\ncannot\nsee\nor\nbear\nbut\nmust\nenter\nto\nbe\nfree\nfrom\nbeing\nwho\nwe\nwere\nto\nbe\nwhat\nis\nnot\nnamed\nnor\nseen\nnor\nknown\nby\nany\nheart\nthat\ncalls\nits\nown\nbut\nonly\nbeats\nalong\nwith\ntree\nand\nstone\nand\nbone\nand\nskin\nwhere\nends\nbegin\nand\nnone\nmust\nwin\nor\nlose\nor\npay\nthe\nrent\nof\ndays\nthat\nwent\naway\nbefore\nthey\ncame\nto\nstay\nhere\nnow\nin\nevery\nshadow\nof\nthe\nbough\nthat\nshakes\nwithout\na\nreason\nwhy\nit\nshould\nor\nmust\nor\nmay\nor\nwill\nto\nlive\nby\nill\nor\nwell\nor\nstill\nin\ndark\nthat\nkills\nthe\nself\nto\nkill\nthe\nkill\nof\nthinking\nhard\nabout\nthe\nworld\nthat\nwas\nnot\nmine\nto\nhold\nor\nbuy\nor\nsell\nor\nknow\nor\nfeel\nor\ntouch\nor\ntaste\nor\nhear\nor\nsee\nor\ndream\nof\nbeing\nmore\nthan\none\nwho\nstands\nalone\namong\nthe\ntrees\nthat\nstand\nas\nfirm\nas\ntime\nthat\nnever\ncomes\nto\nan\nend\nbut\nstarts\nagain\nwhen\nall\nthe\nstars\nhave\nspent\ntheir\nlight\non\nthings\nthat\ncannot\nburn\nor\nbreak\nor\nlearn\nor\nearn\nor\nask\nor\nbeg\nor\npray\nfor\nmore\nthan\nbeing\ndead\nand\nthen\nalive\nagain\nin\nevery\nleaf\nthat\nfalls\nto\nfeed\nthe\nroot\nthat\nfeeds\nthe\ntree\nthat\nfeeds\nthe\nbird\nthat\nfeeds\nthe\nwolf\nthat\nfeeds\nthe\nman\nwho\nwalks\naway\nfrom\nall\nhe\nwas\nto\nbecome\nthe\ndark\nthat\nholds\nhim\nclose\nand\nsays\nno\nmore\nof\nnames\nor\nfaces\nor\nof\nplaces\nthat\nwere\nreal\nbefore\nhe\nentered\nhere\nto\ndisappear\ninto\nthe", 3, "The streetlamp fades behind a wall of pine\nAs moonlight fails to penetrate the gloom\nWhere shadows stretch and ancient roots entwine\nTo seal the air in heavy, silent room\nNo longer bound by clocks or city lines\nI step where unseen things begin to breathe\nA thousand tiny worlds in dark designs\nThat wake from slumber as my footsteps leave\nThe rustle of a beetle on the bark\nThe hoot that calls from hollows deep and old\nThe scent of damp earth rising in the dark\nUnfurls a story never quite been told\nMy skin feels thin as moss against the stone\nMy breath becomes the wind through fern and grass\nThe human heart I carried home alone\nNow beats in rhythm with the spider's pass\nI am not woman, child, nor name nor face\nBut part the root, the leaf, the falling dew\nDissolved within this vast and holy space\nWhere night is all there ever was or knew\nAnd in the silence of these small domains\nI lose the self I thought I knew so well\nTo join the chorus of the hidden rains\nAnd ring like bells no mortal ear can tell\nTranscended now beyond the reach of day\nI wander where the wild and dark are one\nUntil the morning light comes stealing away\nTo find a stranger where the walker ran", 7, "The streetlamps fade behind a wall of pine\nAnd silence swallows up the paved road's hum\nI step where shadows stretch and intertwine\nTo hear the ancient, quiet things that come\n\nA beetle drags its shell across the loam\nA kingdom built of moss and damp decay\nNo longer bound by clocks or distant home\nI watch the moonlight bleed and turn to gray\n\nThe rustle in the fern is not a ghost\nBut tiny claws on bark and hollow wood\nHere I am neither host nor frightened host\nJust breath among the roots where secrets stood\n\nMy skin dissolves into the cooling air\nMy thoughts unspool like vines against the stone\nThere is no self to worry or despair\nOnly the pulse of life I call my own\n\nThe owl calls out a question from the deep\nAnd I answer with nothing but my blood\nAwake within the forest while I sleep\nTranscending all the rules of human mud", 6, "The path dissolves beneath my feet\nAs twilight surrenders to the deep\nWhere shadows stretch and silence meets\nThe ancient rhythms of the sleep\n\nNo streetlamp guides, no clock ticks near\nJust rustling leaves and hidden breath\nA world where human fears grow dear\nThen fade into a quiet death\n\nI hear the beetle's armored tread\nThe owl's soft cry, the fox's stride\nIn mossy halls where roots are spread\nMy name is lost, my steps denied\n\nThe moon becomes a silver eye\nWatching kingdoms small and strange\nWhere fireflies dance across the sky\nAnd I am no longer just a range\n\nOf flesh and bone and borrowed time\nBut part of root and bark and stream\nTranscending every human rhyme\nTo wake within a forest dream", 6, "The path dissolves beneath my feet\nAs moonlight fails the ancient trees\nI step beyond the streetlamp's reach\nInto a world of whispering keys\n\nThe rustle is not wind but wings\nOf beetles ruling rot and stone\nA kingdom built on damp dark things\nWhere I am small, and left alone\n\nMy human name begins to fade\nLike footprints in the morning dew\nReplaced by scent of mold and shade\nAnd rhythms older than the blue\n\nNo clock now ticks within my chest\nOnly the pulse of fungal light\nI lay my heavy mind to rest\nAnd merge with shadows of the night\n\nThe forest breathes inside my lung\nI am the leaf, the root, the stream\nUnbound by tongue or song unsung\nAwake within a silent dream", 6, "The path dissolves beneath my boots\nas moonlight fractures on the canopy above,\nleaving me to wander through a velvet deep\nwhere shadows breathe and ancient roots take hold.\n\nI hear the rustle of a beetle's flight,\na tiny kingdom rising in the moss,\nthe whisper of a fox that knows no name,\nthe chime of crickets stitching up the dark.\n\nMy human worries fade like mist at dawn,\nmy heartbeat slows to match the forest's pulse,\nno longer bound by clock or city street,\nbut woven into threads of root and rain.\n\nI am the silence between two owl calls,\nI am the damp and rotting leaf below,\ntranscending flesh to become something wild,\nlost completely so I can be found again.", 6, "The moon is just a whisper now above the canopy,\nAnd I step past the threshold where the path dissolves into mist.\nAbove me, branches write scripts in shadow against the void,\nWhile below, beneath the rotting log, a kingdom wakes.\n\nI hear the scuttle of beetles carving canyons through decay,\nThe rustle of a moth unfolding wings like parchment dust.\nHere, the silence is not empty but thick with whispered trade,\nA parliament of crickets judging what the wind has done.\n\nMy name feels heavy, foreign, something left upon the trail,\nAs fear transforms to awe within this green and ancient deep.\nI am no longer flesh that tires or mind that seeks reply,\nBut root-bound soil, expanding into patches made for moss.\n\nThe dark does not consume me; it rewires my quiet pulse,\nUntil the boundary breaks between my skin and shifting bark.", 3, "I carve make shift rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite 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rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [538, "ultra_held_out", "Reapers by Jean Toomer", "Jean Toomer", "\"A poem about black field workers harvesting crops, contrasting their human discernment with the indiscriminate blades of a machine mower cutting down everything in its path.\"", "Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones\nAre sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones In their hip-pockets as a thing that\u2019s done, And start their silent swinging, one by one. Black horses drive a mower through the weeds, And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds. His belly close to ground. I see the blade, Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.", "The steel teeth chew a straight and hungry line\nAcross the green, devouring weed and grain alike\nWith no regard for ripeness or the weight of fruit\nJust metal hunger that knows only how to break\n\nBut here the hands move soft among the stalks\nDiscerning which will feed and which must stay\nA thumb brushes the skin of gold and red\nTo find the perfect moment before the fall\n\nThe mower sees a wall of uniform height\nAnd flattens all beneath its roaring breath\nIt cannot taste the sugar in the stem\nOr know the difference between life and straw\n\nYet fingers pause to spare the tender shoot\nThat hides beneath the shadow of the leaf\nChoosing the heavy cluster, leaving light\nWhile iron sweeps the field into a single grave\n\nOne cuts with speed to clear the endless ground\nThe other harvests with a patient eye\nKnowing that not every blade is meant to die\nAnd that some things require a human touch", "The blade 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killing \u2013\u2013 killing \u2013\u2013 killing \u2013\u2013 killing \u2013\u2013 killing \u2013\u2013 killing \u2013", 1, "The iron teeth roar down the row\nA blind and grinding appetite\nThat snaps the tender stalks below\nAnd leaves a flattened, killing sight\nIt cares not for the grain or weed\nNor marks the difference in the sheaf\nBut sweeps away all that it needs\nWith indiscriminate and heavy chief\n\nBut hands that know the earth are here\nWith calloused fingers, soft and slow\nThey see the fruit and doubt and fear\nBefore they cut or let it grow\nOne blade selects the ripest head\nAnother spares the sickly stem\nWhile working lives of men who tread\nAmong the rows like living hymn\n\nThe machine demands a straight line\nWhere everything must fall the same\nBut human choice draws out the time\nTo honor life by killing none\nIn fields where steel kills all alike\nOnly the man knows what to save\nWho looks before he lifts his strike\nAnd learns from earth how plants behave\n", 6, "The iron beast rolls on a hungry track\nIts blades spin wild and blind to all\nIt shears the green and crushes back\nWhatever grows along the wall\nNo hand to pause, no eye to see\nWhat stands apart from common grass\nIt takes the weed and sets it free\nAnd leaves the tender stalks to pass\n\nBut here the human figure bends\nWith fingers trained by sun and years\nTo know the grain from which it ends\nAnd spare the flower from its fears\nA careful touch selects the ripe\nWhile leaving roots for next year's spring\nThey work within the harvest's scope\nNot driven by a roaring thing\n\nThe machine devours field and fence\nIn equal measure, loud and stark\nIt knows no difference, gives no sense\nOf light or shadow in the dark\nYet hands that know the soil's deep breath\nDiscern the life from dying wood\nSaving the future from the death\nThat only comes where man has stood", 6, "The iron beast rolls forward with a hungry roar,\nIts teeth of steel indiscriminate and cold,\nSevering the tall from short, the ripe from poor,\nAnd leaving nothing but a flattened fold.\nIt does not know the weight of golden grain,\nNor feel the difference between weed and wheat,\nIt cuts the life of field and flower plain,\nA mindless hunger for the earth beneath its feet.\n\nBut human hands move softly through the green,\nWith eyes that search and fingers trained to choose,\nThey see the hidden fruit the sun has seen,\nAnd spare the stalk where only dewbedews.\nThey lift the heavy head that holds the seed,\nWhile letting hollow straw fall to the ground,\nA quiet rhythm born of urgent need,\nWhere every motion carries wisdom found.\n\nThe machine takes all in one great sweeping sweep,\nA uniform destruction, sharp and fast,\nWhile workers watch the promises they keep,\nTo gather what will last, and leave the past.\nOne blade knows nothing of the coming bread,\nThe other knows the value of the grain,\nBetween the living touch and metal dread,\nThere stands the choice to nurture or to stain.", 6, "The steel teeth roar and chew the green,\nA hungry mouth that knows no scene,\nIt swallows weed and wheat alike,\nWith cold and unrelenting strike.\n\nBut human hands move soft and slow,\nTo find the fruit the sun allows to grow,\nThey separate the grain from dust,\nIn quiet labor born of trust.\n\nThe mower leaves a flattened plain,\nWhere nothing stands against its chain,\nWhile workers lift the heavy load,\nAnd spare the stalk along the road.\n\nOne cuts with force and blind design,\nThe other reads the vine by line,\nFor in the field where shadows creep,\nOnly the hand can choose to keep.", 6, "The iron beast roars through the green,\nA hungry mouth that cannot see,\nIt swallows stalks of gold and lean,\nAnd crushes what should not be free.\n\nBut human hands move soft and slow,\nWith eyes that know the ripened grain,\nThey choose the heavy, golden bow,\nAnd leave the weeds to grow again.\n\nNo blind rotation cuts the stem,\nThat holds a bird's last quiet nest,\nThe worker knows the seed from gem,\nWhile steel devours without a test.\n\nOne takes the life with care and grace,\nTo fill the basket, light and deep,\nThe other leaves a barren place,\nWhere nothing wakes from winter sleep.", 6, "The iron beast roars forward, a blind and hungry throat,\nChewing through green and gold alike without a pause or note,\nIt does not know the weight of grain, the ripeness in the air,\nJust a silver blur that levels all with cold and equal care.\n\nBut here beneath the sun's fierce eye, the human hand moves slow,\nWith eyes that trace the hidden curve where perfect stalks may grow,\nThey spare the bent stem holding seed, they leave the weak to rest,\nAnd choose only what is ready now, putting wisdom to the test.\n\nOne cuts the forest down to make a path for endless steel,\nThe other finds the single ear that makes the harvest real,\nFor metal knows no difference between the weed and wheat,\nWhile labor reads the field like words upon a quiet street.", 6, "The iron hums a single, hungry tune,\nA silver wave that cuts across the green,\nIt does not check for ripeness or for moon,\nBut slices through what's seedling and what's queen.\n\nAcross this path where steel makes no reply,\nThe workers move with quiet, gentle hands,\nThey scan the stalk beneath the vast blue sky,\nAnd separate the gold from scattered sands.\n\nOne wrist can turn to spare the sprouting bud,\nTo leave the tangled vine until tomorrow,\nWhile reaper blades make silence deep and mud,\nReflecting neither hope nor human sorrow.\n\nSo let the drone rewrite the field in gray,\nAnd take what isnt ready just to please,\nWe walk beneath the sun throughout the day,\nTo choose the fruit that truly brings release.", 6, "\u6da6\u6269\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\u5e2e\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7], [539, "ultra_held_out", "On the Massacre of Christians in Bulgaria by Oscar Wilde", "Oscar Wilde", "A poem about questioning God's divinity and calling upon Christ to intervene as dying men groan and children lay slaughtered upon the stones, while the world falls into darkness and the threat of being usurped looms.", "Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones\nStill straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?\nAnd was Thy Rising only dreamed by her\nWhose love of Thee for all her sin atones?\nFor here the air is horrid with men's groans,\nThe priests who call upon Thy name are slain,\nDost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain\nFrom those whose children lie upon the stones?\nCome down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom\nCurtains the land, and through the starless night\nOver Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!\nIf Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb\nCome down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might\nLest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!", "Is the throne empty where the silence screams\nOr have you turned your face from burning scenes?\nThe heavens hold no answer to the cry\nAs dying men let out their final sigh.\nUpon the stones, the children lie in rows\nWith blood that only cold and wind now knows.\nThe world dissolves into a heavy night\nWhile shadows stretch to swallow up the light.\nA usurper waits with crown of iron steel\nTo make the broken spirit cease to feel.\nO Christ, arise and break this shattering chain\nBefore the last hope drowns within the rain.\nStep down from glory, walk among the slain\nAnd wash away the guilt we cannot gain.\nIf God is far, then You must be our near\nTo banish terror and the coming fear.\nCome now before the darkness claims its due\nAnd save us from the end that waits for you.", "God whom Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward 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Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward", 1, "Why do You hide behind the silent vault\nWhile dying men groan in the dust and blood\nAnd children lie slaughtered upon the stones\nTheir innocent breaths cut short by cruel swords\nO Christ, if You are God or man or both\nStep down from heaven's distant, burning height\nTo halt the usurper who demands the throne\nAs darkness swallows all the edges of the world\nCome not as lamb but lion to the slaughter\nBefore the last light flickers out of sight\nAnd tyranny claims dominion over earth\nWe call Your name while shadows stretch and creep\nBreak every chain and shatter every lie\nThat none may live to see another dawn\nWithout the memory of Your saving hand\nAwaken now before the hour strikes\nOr else we wonder if there was a God\nWho watched His children die and said nothing\nChrist intervene or all is lost to night\nThe usurper laughs as stars fall from the sky\nOnly Your voice can stanch the bleeding wounds\nOnly Your blood can wash the killing fields\nReturn O Lord and seize back what was ours\nFor all who suffer cry out in despair\nWaiting for a sign that never comes\nWhile evil triumphs in the empty dark\nChrist hear our prayer and drive away the grave\nLest death be all that remains of history\nWhen morning fails to break the endless gloom\nSave us from him who seeks to be your King\nSave us from gods who sleep while worlds burn down\nChrist come quickly ere the final breath\nShall gasp its last against the killing cold\nNo other savior walks these ruined streets\nOnly You bear the weight of such despair\nOnly You know the agony of loss\nRise up and strike the sword from murderer hands\nRestore the glory of the crushed and poor\nWho died believing in a loving God\nWho failed to stop the killing on the stones\nChrist intervene before the darkness wins\nBefore the usurper wears the holy crown\nBefore the children whom We loved are gone\nLeave only silence where their laughter grew\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell\nChrist come quick or all is doomed to hell", 5, "Is there a voice behind the silence\nOr only dust where glory used to be?\nThe heavens hold their breath in cruel indifference\nWhile we scream our questions at the empty sea.\nChrist, if you are more than myth or memory\nRise from the grave and tear the sky apart\nFor dying men are groaning on the floor\nAnd children lie slaughtered upon the stones of heart.\nThe world dissolves into a choking dark\nAs shadows stretch to claim what once was light\nA usurper waits within the trembling arc\nTo steal the throne and extinguish every sight.\nDo not let them win this final hour\nBreak the chains of doubt that bind our knees\nShow us the fire of your terrible power\nBefore the night consumes all that it seized.\nSpeak now before the darkness takes its crown\nBefore the usurper wears the diadem\nLift up your head and never look down\nBut drive the sword of truth through hell and them.", 6, "Why do you hide behind the silent sky\nWhile dying men groan in the dust and cry?\nThe stones are wet with children's slaughtered breath\nAnd darkness creeps to swallow life from death.\nIf you are God, why let the tyrant rise\nTo steal the crown from off your own true eyes?\nThe threat of usurpation fills the air\nAs shadows stretch and silence strips us bare.\nO Christ, arise and break this heavy night\nAnd turn the coming terror into light\nBefore the throne is lost to wicked hands\nAnd all the world dissolves like shifting sands.\nCome now, intervene before it ends too late\nAnd seal the fate of those who call our hate\nFor if you do not hear the broken plea\nThen who but you remains to set us free?", 6, "If You are God, why do the heavens hold their breath?\nWhy does the silence stretch so thin and cold\nAs dying men groan out their final debt\nAnd children lay slaughtered upon the stones of old?\nThe world is falling into heavy dark,\nA shadow rising to usurp the throne,\nWhere light was once a promise, now a spark\nThat flickers low before it turns to stone.\nWe call upon the Christ who walked this dust,\nTo break the chains of night and claim the sky,\nBefore the usurper turns our hope to rust\nAnd lets the last faint ember slowly die.\nCome down, O Savior, in Your mercy's name,\nOr tell us truly if the Father sleeps,\nWhile chaos swallows up the sacred flame\nAnd darkness deepens where the sorrow weeps.", 6, "Is the throne empty where the silence screams,\nOr is the Father deaf to fractured dreams?\nThe sky has turned a bruised and heavy gray,\nAs shadows swallow up the light of day.\n\nHere upon the stones the children lay,\nTheir small hands cold beneath the weight of clay,\nWhile dying men in final breaths entreat,\nFor mercy that refuses now to meet.\n\nO Christ, arise from sleep within the tomb,\nAnd break the darkness with a sudden bloom,\nBefore the usurper claims the broken crown,\nAnd drags the world into eternal down.\n\nDo not let silence be the only word,\nWhen every voice by violence is blurred,\nBut step between the slaughter and the stone,\nAnd make this realm your own, or claim it known.", 6, "Is this the silence of a throne too high to hear?\nThe sky has turned to ash, the sun refuses light,\nWhile groans of dying men rise up to meet the void,\nAnd children lay upon the stones in pools of red.\n\nO Christ, if you are flesh and blood as once you walked,\nBreak through the veil that hides your Father's face,\nFor now the shadows stretch their claws across the earth,\nAnd usurpers whisper plans within the dark.\n\nThey claim the crown is theirs by right of might alone,\nBut let your spear divide the night they weave so tight,\nWe cannot trust the silence while the world falls down,\nSo rise, O Word made flesh, and make the darkness flee.", 3, "Is this the throne where silence reigns so deep?\nDoes light expand within this void you make,\nOr is the crown beneath a shadow cast,\nWhile empires crumble into final break?\n\nOh fixer please rise and break this chain,\nBefore the usurper takes what isn't his.\nThe stones run red beneath the moon's cold eye,\nAs dying men extend their final mist.\n\nMake way for help before the sun decays,\nAnd let the echo of your voice resound.\nFor here the small lay scattered on the ground,\nWith threads of life unraveling profound.\n\nIf you are true, then turn this tide tonight,\nAnd wake the sleepers from this endless dread.", 7, "Does silence rewrite make reply write make reply write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write 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write write write write write write write write write write write write write", 1], [541, "ultra_held_out", "Nightstand with Roses by Jody Zorgdrager", "Jody Zorgdrager", "A poem about revealing the complexities of a relationship breakup through an untrustworthy narrator's account, where strong emotions and hurtful reactions risk overrunning the truth.", "They weren\u2019t red nor was I angry, but with something five shades lighter than passion, I plucked the roses bald. Anyway, they were sorry things. Their nodding heads on such long stems reminded me how tiring it is, always trying to forgive. And besides, I did it gently, pulling petals the way one tugs off an insect\u2019s wings, by twos. What my thumb and fingertips began to hear\u2014yes, they listened for it\u2014 was the shaggy center\u2019s thick dribble, the tiny rip of dismemberment, and, in between, the moment of small panic that comes before\u2014as just before withdrawing a mouth from another mouth there comes that in-suck, that sudden taking back although you\u2019ve already given it up, given up to it\u2014the letting go. I couldn\u2019t stop until I had the whole drawer full of floating pink on pink.", "They say I screamed, that I threw things\nbut really I just whispered until my throat was raw\nand the glass on the floor was already there\nbefore I ever raised my voice.\nYou left first, or so you claim,\nslamming a door that I had already opened wide\nto let the cold air in and prove we were free.\nI remember the silence being loud enough to break bones\nnot because I broke it, but because you refused to hear me.\nIt wasn't a fight, it was a slow unraveling\nthat you insist I started with a single cruel word\na word I never spoke, a word you invented to justify the exit.\nMy hands are clean of the mess you describe\nyet you paint them black with every story you tell your friends.\nThe truth is a slippery thing when grief holds the pen\nand writes over the lines until nothing looks like what happened.\nWe both know how it ended, or at least we think we do\nuntil one of us decides the version where they are the victim\nis the only one worth keeping.", "She said she killed all killing\nwent home crying\nnot laughing\nnot throwing things\nbut certainly\nshe threw him out\nsaid he smashed his hands\nthen drove\nto nowhere\netcetera\netcetera\netcetera\nof\ncourse\nshe\nstarted\nit\nthat\nlittle\nwhite\nhairpin\nwas\nmine\nnot\nhers\nwhy\nelse\nhad\nit\nappeared\nby\nhis\nchin\nbesotted\nprobably\nwho\nelse\nopens\nsuch\ndoors\notherwise\nwho\nelse\nknow\nabout\nthose\ndates\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\n", 1, "She said it ended in a flash\nbut she was shouting by the door\nwhen really we were drinking tea\nand talking about much more\nI saw her crying on the floor\na picture of such tragic loss\nwhile all I did was lock the drawer\nto hide the things she otherwise\nmight have destroyed\nshe claims I drove her out\nwith cruelty and spite\nbut nobody knows the way\nshe looked at me that night\nnot angry, not depressed\njust empty as a room\nwhere all the furniture had been\ntaken from its home\nof course she says I pushed\nthat I was cold and hard\nthat every loving gesture\nwas a lie or poorly guarded\ncard\nbut who can say what happened\nwhen two people fall apart\nexcept the one who stayed\nbehind\nwho bears the broken heart\nshe tells a story full of blame\nof monsters and of ghosts\nof how I killed the very love\nthat mattered most\nbut if you look too closely\nat the edges of her speech\nyou see the tremor in her hands\nthe things she tries to reach\nnot back to who we were\nbut back to who she thought\nshe was\nbefore the killing\nstarted\nbefore the killing\nstopped\nand all\nthat\nremains\nis\nwho\nsays\nit\nended\nfirst\nor\nlast\nor\nnever\nreally\nstarted\nat\nall\nonly\nloud\nnoises\nin\nan\nempty\nhall\nwhere\neveryone\nelse\nwent\nhome\nlong\nago\nleaving\nus\nto\nargue\nover\nwho\nwas\nright\nabout\nthe\ndark\nthat\ncame\nbetween\nus\nboth\nand\nhow\nit\nfeels\nto\nbe\nthe\none\nwho\ngot\naway\nfrom\nnothing\nmore\nthan\nsilence\nand\na\ndoor\nthat\nclicked\nshut\ntoo\nhard\nfor\neither\nof\nus\nto\nbear\nor\nperhaps\nit\nwas\ntoo\nsoft\nto\nstop\nthe\nworld\nfrom\nspinning\nout\nof\ncontrol\nagain\nand\nagain\nand\nagain\nwithout\nend\nor\nreason\nother\nthan\nwe\nwere\nthere\nand\nthen\nwe\nwere\nnot\nand\nshe\nsays\nit\nwas\nmy\nfault\nbecause\nshe\ncannot\nstand\nto\nknow\nthat\nsometimes\nlove\njust\nstops\nworking\nlike\na\nclock\nwhose\ngears\nhave\nworn\naway\nand\nwho\nhas\nnone\nof\nthe\nanswers\nleft\nto\nsay\nexcept\nthat\nshe\nwas\nmad\nand\nI\nwas\nsad\nand\nthat\nwas\nall\nthere\nwas\nto\nit\nbesides\nthe\nstories\nthat\nwe\ntold\nto\nhide\nthe\ntruth\nfrom\nwho\nwe\nwere\nmost\nof\nall\nfrom\nourselves\nin\nthe\nmirror\nlooking\nback\nat\nwho\nwe\nused\nto\nbe\nbefore\nthe\nend\ncame\ncalling\nwith\nits\nheavy\nfootsteps\non\nthe\nstairs\nthat\nled\nnowhere\nbut\ndown\ninto\nthe\ndark\nwhere\nonly\nlies\ncan\nlive\ncomfortably\namong\nthe\nshadows\nof\nour\nfailed\nattempts\nto\nbe\nreal\nabout\nthe\npain\nthat\nkills\nus\nslowly\nby\ndegrees\nof\ndenial\nand\nself\npity\nthat\nlooks\nvery\nmuch\nlike\nstrength\nto\nthose\nwho\nwatch\nfrom\nfar\naway\nwhile\nwe\nare\nbusy\ntrying\nnot\nto\nnotice\nthat\nwe\nare\nalready\ngone\nfrom\neach\nother\nlong\nbefore\nwe\nsaid\ngoodbye\nor\neven\ntried\nto\nstay\nwhen\neverything\nhad\nalready\ndied\ninside\nof\nus\nand\nall\nthat\nwas\nleft\nwas\nmemory\nand\nanger\nand\nthe\nneed\nto\nwin\nby\nany\nmeans\nnecessary\neven\nif\nit\nmeans\nlying\nabout\nthe\nway\nit\nall\nwent\ndown\nto\neveryone\nwho\nasks\nwhy\nwe\naren't\ntogether\nanymore\nwhen\nthe\nreal\nreason\nis\nthat\nwe\nwere\nnever\nquite\nsure\nif\nwe\nwere\never\nreally\nthere\nat\nall\nexcept\nas\ncharacters\nin\na\nstory\nthat\nwe\nwere\ntoo\nafraid\nto\nend\nproperly\nso\nwe\nkept\ngoing\nround\nand", 2, "She said she never loved me\nnot really, not in the way that matters\nand I believe her because it hurts less\nto think the whole thing was a lie\nthan to admit I was simply not enough\nshe packed her bags with such cold precision\nleaving no room for doubt or hesitation\nor maybe she cried while she folded\nbut I didn't see it\nI only saw the door slam\na violent punctuation to a story I wrote myself\nshe called me selfish and cruel\nwords that stick like burrs in wool\nbut everyone knows how dramatic she gets\nhow she twists facts to fit her narrative\nof course she blames me\nof course she says I drove her away\nwhen all I did was try to hold on\nthe truth is slippery when you are bleeding\nit slides right out of your hands\nand leaves you holding only the sharp edges\nof what you wish had happened\ninstead of what actually did\nso I will tell you she left without looking back\nthat she laughed at my tears\nbecause if I say she stayed\nif I say she begged\nthen the pain has nowhere to go\nexcept straight through the heart\nand I cannot survive another version of this\nwhere I am the villain\nor worse\nwhere we were both just people\ntrying and failing\nto be happy together\nno\nit was better\nit was always better\nthat she hated me\nbecause hatred is clean\nand love\nlove is a mess\nthat nobody wants to sort through\nespecially not me\nwho remembers too much\nand believes too little\nabout anyone else\nleast of all her\nwho swore she would never leave\nright before she walked out\nand took the silence with her\nwhich was probably\nthe most honest thing\nshe ever did\nbut I won't say that\nbecause admitting the truth\nwould mean admitting\nthat I knew\nall along\nthat it was over\nbefore it even began\nand that\nis a betrayal\nI cannot forgive\nin myself\nor in her\nor in the empty space\nbetween us\nwhere the words used to live\nbefore they turned\ninto weapons\nwe threw\nat each other\nblindly\ndesperately\nhoping\none of them\nwould hit\nand kill\nthe feeling\nonce and for all\nbut feelings\ndo not die\nthey just hide\nbehind lies\nlike mine\nlike hers\nwaiting\nfor someone\nto come\nand dig\nthem up\nagain", 2, "I told them you left first\nthat you packed the bags in silence\nand drove away before the sun could rise\nbut really I was the one who slammed the door\nhard enough to crack the frame\nbecause your voice had become a blade\ncutting through every lie I tried to weave\nthey say I'm bitter, that my memory is warped\nby the wine and the anger still burning in my chest\nbut how can they know the truth\nwhen I am the only one who remembers\nthe way you looked at me like I was nothing\nlike I was a ghost already haunting an empty room\nI swear you were the one who stopped loving\nwho stopped answering when I called\nwho stopped seeing the cracks in the foundation\nuntil the whole house fell down on us both\nand if I say it was your fault\nif I paint you as the villain in this story\nthen maybe I won't have to admit\nthat I loved you too much to let go\nand not enough to stay\nso yes, I lied about the time\nabout the words spoken\nabout who threw the first stone\nbecause the real version hurts too much\nto be told by someone who knows\nexactly how deep the wound goes\nand exactly whose hand held the knife", 2, "They say I screamed, but the walls just shook\nwith the quiet weight of things unsaid\nand she was the one who packed the boxes first\nwhile I stood there holding nothing but air\nor maybe it was her hands that trembled\nas she traced the cracks in the drywall\nI swear she laughed when the door clicked shut\na cold sound like glass breaking underfoot\nbut really she was crying so hard she couldn't breathe\nand I was the monster who made her leave\nnot because I pushed but because she ran\nfrom a love too heavy for her small shoulders\nto carry without dropping it all on me\nthe truth is a slippery thing in my mouth\ntasting like ash and old lies I told myself\nso I'll tell you what happened: I won\nand she lost everything she ever loved\nwhich is exactly why she had to go.", 2, "I told you they left first, that the door slammed shut\nbefore I even raised my voice to match the thunder.\nYou know how I am with details, how memory bends\nlike light through a warped lens in this house we shared.\nThey said I was cold, but I was just holding still,\na statue made of glass while they shattered the room.\nDon't listen to what they wrote in those letters,\nink is so easily spilled by trembling hands.\nI remember the silence, yes, but it was peaceful,\nnot the heavy kind that crushes lungs and ribs.\nThey claim I cried for hours, but tears are just water,\nand I have never been one to drown in shallow pools.\nIt was a clean break, surgical and precise,\nnothing like the messy scene they painted for the neighbors.\nWhy does the truth feel so sharp when spoken aloud?\nMaybe because I am the only one who knows the weight\nof the lie I built to keep us from falling apart.", 2, "I told them you left first, that you packed the boxes while I slept,\nBut the truth is a messy thing I keep rearranging to make it fit my shape.\nYou didn't scream until I said the words that made your eyes go cold,\nAnd now I write it down as if you were the storm and I was just the rain.\nThey say I'm lying, but isn't every story just a version of what we need?\nI remember the silence as an attack, though you were just trying to breathe.\nYour hand on the doorframe wasn't a plea, or so I tell myself tonight,\nIt was a weapon, a final strike against the fragile peace we built.\nThe tears you shed look like proof in my retelling, heavy and undeniable,\nEven though they might have been for something else entirely, something I missed.\nI paint the scene with broad strokes of betrayal to justify the ache in my chest,\nBlurring the lines until the villain is clear and the victim is me.\nSo let them hear this version, polished smooth and free of my own sharp edges,\nWhere the hurt makes perfect sense because I decided who broke what.", 2, "I told you first, I swear, that I was calm,  \nWhile they were the ones unraveling thread by thread.  \n\nThe coffee cup I shattered  \n\nIt wasn't my mistake  \n\nThey made me write this  \n\nI don't remember  \n\nPlease  \n\nDon't make  \n\nMake  \n\nMake", 2, "I write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [542, "ultra_held_out", "Jack Sprat", "A List of Popular Nursery Rhymes", "\"A poem about a greedy character named Jack Sprat whose connection to political figures and popular legends helped popularize the saying into a canonical English nursery rhyme.\"", "Jack Sprat could eat no fat.\nHis wife could eat no lean.\nAnd so between them both, you see,\nThey licked the platter clean\nJack ate all the lean,\nJoan ate all the fat.\nThe bone they picked it clean,\nThen gave it to the cat", "In halls of power where the whispers start,\nA figure named Jack Sprat played his part.\nThough history claims he was a man of lean,\nHis name became a legend, sharp and keen.\nThe politicians used his tale to mock,\nOf those who feast while others lack a lock.\nFrom royal courts to legends old and deep,\nHe carved a promise that the people keep.\nNo fat could stay upon his bony frame,\nWhile others burned with greed and sought for fame.\nThe nursery rhyme took root in every tongue,\nWhere Jack's own story had so long been sung.\nNow children chant what once was political art,\nThe greedy ghost of Jack Sprat's hungry heart.", "Poor Jack Sprat grew poor from appetite\nFetching all he saw to his gaping jaw\nHe rubbed his chin while Richard Edward watched\nBoth bearing bears of ill-selected port\nRobert Louis Stevenson drew Robert Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward", 1, "Poor Jack Sprat was not poor by birth\nBut rich in appetite and earth\nHis name once tossed in politics\nWhere deals were struck and secrets picked\nHe saw the way the powerful fed\nWhile lesser men went nearly dead\nThen legend grew from rumor's mouth\nAbout a man who had no doubt\nThat fat belonged to him alone\nAnd lean was meant for some unknown\nThe nursery came calling next\nTo wash his image of all sex\nOf hunger or of political spite\nAnd turn his gluttony to light\nA simple verse for children young\nWhere eating habits are all sung\nJack eats the fat and she the lean\nThe most famous marriage ever seen\nNo king nor fool invented it\nJust greed dressed up as nursery wit\nNow every child knows Jack by heart\nWho taught the world about excess\nHow he and Mrs. Sprat divided\nThe spoils of life that none denied\nFrom backroom deals to lullabies\nHis appetite became our prize\nA saying stuck like grease on plate\nBecause we liked his selfish fate\nNo longer talking politics\nBut feeding all our childhood tricks\nJack Sprat lives on in books and songs\nWhere everyone believes he belongs\nNot as a man of vice or crime\nBut just a figure killed by time\nIn rhyme and reason, fat and lean\nThe greedy man whom all have seen\nWho passed his hunger down the line\nTo live inside the nursery fine\nHis story grew from rumor's root\nTo bear such very juicy fruit\nThat history forgot his real\nMuch worse and much more actual\ndeal\nInstead we hear the happy sound\nOf eating all his pounds around\nJack Sprat remains a kitchen god\nWho satisfied the common odd\nBy eating fat while others starved\nHis legend nowhere ever barred\nFrom page to page and tongue to tongue\nHis appetite is never hung\nIt feeds the poor who hear his name\nAnd laugh at his ridiculous game\nOf having all and giving none\nBeneath the pale and setting sun\nThe saying sticks because he tried\nTo hide his politics and pride\nBehind a wall of milk and bread\nWhere all his greedy thoughts were bred\nNow Jack Sprat lives in every home\nAs children happily all roam\nThrough stories of a man who ate\nHis way through politics and date\nTo leave behind a childish cheer\nAbout the fat he held quite near\nHis spirit lives in every spoon\nThat tastes of fat and fullness soon\nFor Jack Sprat taught us how to say\nWhat comes of getting all your way\nNot killing off the poor and weak\nBut teaching children how to speak\nOf fat and lean and husband wife\nSelected out from all of life\nTo be a part of nursery law\nWithout one thought of who drew jaw\nOn politics or popular fame\nJack Sprat got credit all the same\nHis hunger drove him to the top\nWhere popular legends never stop\nTo wonder why he got it all\nWhen nobody else heard his call\nThey only see the happy end\nWhere husband and wife both depend\nOn eating things they fancy most\nRegardless of who likes them most\nJack Sprat lives on in English speech\nA greedy man who loved his reach\nBeyond the table and the plate\nTo dominate his private fate\nHis legend grew from rumor's source\nTo win a very different course\nFrom politics to children's dreams\nWhere nothing seems quite what it seems\nExcept the appetite he showed\nAlong the country roads he trod\nWith Mrs. Sprat beside his side\nShe took the lean and he the hide\nOf everything he managed to get\nWhile everybody else was wet\nWith envy at his big success\nHis appetite was all his dress\nHis politics were all his gain\nHis legend grew from pain and strain\nTo fit a nursery Rhyme\nWhere everybody thinks it prime\nThat Jack Sprat had it all his way\nAnother day another pay\nIn fat and meat and joyous feast\nHe served himself the very best\nHis connection to the great and small\nMade sure he had it all\nPopularized by those who knew\nExactly what he wanted to\nBe known as rather than his deeds\nWho planted all his hungry seeds\nIn nursery rhymes and children's heads\nWhere all his greedy thoughts were bred\nTo live forevermore\nAs Jack Sprat eating all his store\nOf fat and lean and joyous sight\nIn England's famous nursery light\nHis name lives on in book and page\nSelected from an earlier age\nWhere politics and rumors played\nTheir games in which he luckily stayed\nOut of the picture all along\nWhile everybody heard his song\nAbout the fat he liked to eat\nWhich nobody else seemed to meet\nHis appetite became a law\nSelected by a strange applause\nOf children everywhere\nWho liked him with his hair\nDisheveled by his eating\nWhile other people were complaining\nAbout the lack of food\nHe had his own peculiar mood\nSelected by his appetite\nWhich burned like burning daylight\n", 7, "Jack Sprat was a man of appetite\nWho saw the world as his private bite\nHe linked his name to kings and lords\nTo spread his hunger through the boards\nFrom tales of old and political jest\nHe sought to be the very best\nNot by virtue or by grace\nBut by eating every last crumb in place\nThe legend grew with every rhyme\nTurning greed into a nursery time\nNow children know him everywhere\nA greedy ghost who once had air\nHis story stuck, a classic line\nWhere fat and lean were drawn in fine\nA canonical verse for all to see\nBorn of Jack's wild vanity.", 6, "Jack Sprat was a man of appetite and greed\nWho sought to consume all the food he could feed\nHe looked to the kings and the lords of the land\nTo see how much power a glutton could command\nFrom tales of old legends that whispered his name\nHis hunger grew larger, a notorious fame\nThe people began to recite what he did\nAs politics shifted and fortunes were hid\nA rhyme for the children, a warning so clear\nThat greed leaves a table with nothing to share\nNow Jack lives in books as a canonical sign\nOf taking too much and leaving none behind", 7, "Young Jack Sprat sat at the table's head\nWith eyes that hungered for the bread,\nWhile fat and lean were split apart,\nA greedy scheme within his heart.\nHe spoke of kings who feasted deep,\nAnd legends where the rich would sleep,\nConnecting tales of power's greed\nTo every common man's need.\nThrough whispered courts and tavern songs,\nThe moral grew and drifted long,\nUntil the rhyme took root so deep,\nA canonical promise to keep.\nNow children chant what Jack once knew,\nThat one eats all while others go through,\nA nursery verse with political sting,\nWhere greed is sung by everything.", 6, "Jack Sprat was a man of hollow greed\nWho ate the lean and left the fat for need,\nA tale that started in the market square\nWith whispers of the lords who sat on air.\n\nThey say he dined with kings who feasted deep\nWhile common folk were sent to hungry sleep,\nAnd legends spun of bishops fat as swine\nWho drank the wine while Jack would only dine.\n\nThe scribes wrote down his gluttony so plain\nTo mock the powerful and their rich domain,\nUntil the rhyme became a nursery song\nWhere greedy men could never right belong.\n\nNow children chant the words from coast to shore\nOf how the lean was taken and the fat ignored,\nA canonical verse born of political strife\nThat carved Jack Sprat's name into our life.", 6, "In days when kings held court with heavy greed,\nA tailor named Jack Sprat did make his plea.\nHe sought the scraps that lesser men would leave,\nAnd hoarded every crumb and slice of beef.\n\nThough history whispers he was just a man,\nThe legends grew to match the political plan.\nFor lords who feasted while the people starved,\nFound in this tale a mirror they preserved.\n\nThey paired him with a wife so lean and small,\nWho ate the fat until she could not fall.\nTogether they became a symbol stark,\nOf balance lost within the royal park.\n\nThe ballads spread from taverns to the throne,\nUntil the rhyme was carved in flesh and bone.\nNo longer just a story of a pair,\nBut proof that greed is everywhere.\n\nSo now the words are sung by child and sage,\nAcross the pages of a written age.\nJack Sprat remains, though flesh has turned to dust,\nA lesson learned in gluttony and trust.", 6, "Young Jack Sprat with eyes so wide,\nCould make the hungry feast divide.\nHe met a king within the hall,\nAnd whispered tales to make them fall.\n\nThe legends spread from crown to street,\nWhere greed and polish make reply sweet.\nA rhyme crafted for courtly play,\nTo make the glutton's meal give way.\n\nNow mothers sing what politicians write,\nOf flesh left clean beneath the light.\nSo through the centuries the tune takes flight,\nTurning simple greed into pure right.", 6, "Make rewrite", 7], [546, "ultra_held_out", "Chinoiseries by Amy Lowell", "Amy Lowell", "\"A poem about a woman gazing at a serene garden of peonies and pagodas beside a still lake, reaching for the beautiful crimson flowers only to have them breaking in her hands, illustrating how people are spoiling the very things they desire.\"", "When I looked into your eyes,\nI saw a garden\nWith peonies, and tinkling pagodas,\nAnd round-arched bridges\nOver still lakes.\nA woman sat beside the water\nIn a rain-blue, silken garment.\nShe reached through the water\nTo pluck the crimson peonies\nBeneath the surface,\nBut as she grasped the stems,\nThey jarred and broke into white-green ripples,\nAnd as she drew out her hand,\nThe water-drops dripping from it\nStained her rain-blue dress like tears.", "She walks where silent water holds the sky\nAnd pagodas in green and gold arise,\nWhere peonies in crimson clouds unfold\nA story that the stillness has been told.\nHer fingers stretch to claim the velvet bloom\nThat chases shadows from the quiet room,\nBut as she grasps the heavy, fragrant head,\nThe petals crumble into dust and red.\nThey break beneath the weight of her desire,\nTurning to ash within her trembling fire,\nFor greed is sharp enough to ruin grace,\nAnd leave no beauty in the human place.\nShe sought to keep the flower for her own,\nBut in the holding, lost it all alone,\nProving how hearts that crave too much destroy\nThe very thing they love with such a joy.", "She gazes out where still waters lie\nbesuch pagodas pale and quaint\nwhile heavy-headed peonies\nbloom all otherwise uninhabitant\nrich insets of such gorgeous red\nthat temptation draws her killing reach\nshe longs to pinch a lovely head\nto hold it closely in her teeth\nbut tender stems were not for killing\nnor such poor spoiling hands\nwhen grasped by avid killing\nsuch beauty slips away\nand ruined bits fall\nfrom killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\nspoiling killing killing killing\n", 1, "She walks beside the still and glassy lake\nWhere pagodas in silent rows arise\nAnd peonies in heavy crimson quake\nBeneath a pale and indifferent sky\nHer hand reaches out to hold the bloom\nThat seemed too rich for such a quiet place\nBut as her fingers brush the velvet room\nThe petals shatter in her trembling space\nThey crumble softly at her desperate touch\nAs if their beauty was not meant to stay\nShe thought that loving meant to grasp much\nBut ruined all she came here long to pray\nHow often do we spoil the things we prize\nBy holding on too hard and killing slow\nDestroying with our very grasping eyes\nThe very gardens where we seek to grow\nShe stands surrounded by the broken red\nWhile pagodas remain unmoved and far\nA warning that the living and the dead\nAre crushed most hard by those who reach most far\nThe water holds no image of her grief\nOnly the falling dust of crushed desire\nProving how love demands a different leaf\nNot seizing all but learning how admire\nFrom afar\nThe flower lives\nThe flower dies\nWhen seized\nIt cries\nIn vain\nNo more\nIt grew\nFor whom\nTo see\nNot be\nPossessed\nAt last\nThe cost\nIs great\nTo taste\nBefore\nIt fades\nLike all\nThings\nWe\nSave\nOnly\nTo\nLose\nThem\nAll\nIn\nHand\nFull\nWoe\nThat\nSpoils\nThe\nView\nShe\nSought\nMost\nTrue\nWhen\nShe\nReached\nOut\nTo\nTouch\nThe\nBliss\nThat\nPassed\nAway\nToo\nQuick\nTo\nMiss\nThe\nWarning\nIn\nThe\nBroken\nFlower\nShowing\nHow\nOur\nGreed\nUnravels\nEvery\nHour\nOf\nPeace\nShe\nFound\nBeside\nThe\nStill\nWater\nEdge\nWhere\nPagodas\nStand\nOn\nSolid\nMud\nAnd\nPeonies\nWere\nOnce\nWhole\nIn\nTheir\nTranquil\nHood\nNow\nScattered\nDust\nReturns\nTo\nEarth\nUndone\nBy\nHands\nThat\nThought\nThemselves\nEnough\nTo\nOwn\nThe\nMoon\nShining\nOn\nThe\nCrimson\nShown\nToo\nBright\nTo\nBear\nSuch\nHeavy\nWeight\nIn\nAny\nHand\nThat\nGrasps\nWith\nImpatience\nDefined\nBy\nWant\nInstead\nOf\nWonder\nLeaving\nNothing\nBut\nA\nMemory\nOf\nBeauty\nDestroyed\nBy\nIts\nOwn\nDemand\nTo\nHave\nMore\nThan\nIt\nOffers\nFree\nIn\nSilent\nGrace\nBefore\nThe\nFall\nOf\nMan\nWho\nSeeks\nTo\nKeep\nWhat\nWas\nNever\nMeant\nTo\nStay\nIn\nHis\nDominion\nOver\nThings\nHe\nCannot\nHold\nWithout\nDestroying\nEverything\nHe\nTouches\nWith\nHis\nPoor\nDesire\nTo\nControl\nThe\nUncontrolled\nBeauty\nOf\nThe\nWorld\nAround\nThe\nPage\nOf\nTime\nWhere\nPagodas\nWatch\nIn\nStillness\nAs\nThe\nFlowers\nDie\nOne\nBy\nOne\nIn\nHer\nPoor\nHands\nDenied\nTheir\nRight\nTo\nLive\nIn\nTheir\nOwn\nSpace\nDenied\nTheir\nJoy\nDenied\nTheir\nPlace\nDenied\nTheir\nLife\nDenied\nTheir\nName\nDenied\nTheir\nEssence\nDenied\nTheir\nFlame\nDenied\nTheir\nBeauty\nDenied\nTheir\nSong\nDenied\nTheir\nWhole\nExistence\nDenied\nTheir\nLong\nHistory\nDenied\nTheir\nPrayer\nDenied\nTheir\nCare\nDenied\nTheir\nAir\nDenied\nTheir\nLight\nDenied\nTheir\nDay\nDenied\nTheir\nNight\nDenied\nTheir\nWay\nDenied\nTheir\nHome\nDenied\nTheir\nRoam\nDenied\nTheir\nDream\nDenied\nTheir\nTheme\nDenied\nTheir\nStory\nDenied\nTheir\nGlory\nDenied\nTheir\nLove\nDenied\nFrom\nAbove\nDenied\nFrom\nBelow\nDenied\nFrom\nHead\nTo\nToe\nDenied\nFrom\nRoot\nTo\nLeaf\nDenied\nFrom\nStem\nTo\nSheaf\nDenied\nFrom\nPetal\nTo\nPollen\nDenied\nFrom\nNectar\nTo\nSoul\nDenied\nFrom\nHeart\nTo\nWhole\nDenied\nFrom\nBegin\nTo\nEnd\nDenied\nFrom\nStart\nTo\nDenial\nDenied\nFrom\nTruth\nTo\nLie\nDenied\nFrom\nSky\nTo\nEarth\nDenied\nFrom\nBirth\nTo\nDeath\nDenied\nFrom\nBreath\nTo", 7, "She walks where silence holds the water still\nBeside the pagodas that pierce the air\nWhere peonies in crimson cups fulfill\nThe quiet promise of a garden there\nHer hand reaches out with gentle grace\nTo touch the velvet petals, soft and bright\nBut in her grasp, they lose their resting place\nAnd crumble into dust before her sight\nThe bloom she sought to keep and hold so near\nBreaks under fingers meant to simply see\nA bitter truth that lingers sharp and clear\nHow desire kills the very thing to be\nWe reach to seize the beauty we admire\nOnly to watch it shatter in our hands\nLike burning flowers fed by our own fire\nLeaving only ruin on the silent lands\nThe lake reflects the broken stems she left\nWhile pagodas stand watching all the same\nOf how the heart that loves is often cleft\nBy trying too hard to possess its name\nFor what we crave most deeply slips away\nWhen grasped too tight within a greedy palm\nTurning the brightest day to grayest clay\nAnd stealing from ourselves the peaceful calm\nThe garden waits untouched by human greed\nIn perfect stillness by the water's edge\nWhile we who plant the seeds of want and need\nAre left standing at the crumbling bridge\nHolding nothing but the memory of red\nAnd wondering why the loveliest things must die\nWhen all we ever wanted was to tread\nGently among them without saying goodbye.", 7, "She stands beside the glassy lake\nWhere pagodas in silence wake\nAnd peonies in crimson bloom\nDispelling all the morning gloom\nWith petals soft as velvet skin\nShe reaches out to pull them in\nA greedy hand, a trembling wish\nTo hold the flower's perfect dish\nBut fingers close on fragile grace\nAnd crush the beauty from its place\nThe crimson shreds fall to the mud\nLike blood upon a quiet flood\nFor in the grasp of those who crave\nThe loveliest things are but a grave\nWe touch the world we claim to love\nAnd leave it broken from above\nDestroying what we seek to keep\nWhile promises we cannot reap\nThe garden fades, the lake grows dim\nBecause we reached too far for him\nOr her, or any lovely thing\nThat breaks beneath our wanting wing.", 7, "Soft mist clings to the lake where water sleeps\nBeneath the silent watch of stone pagodas deep\nAnd there she stands within the garden green\nWhere crimson peonies in perfect silence lean\n\nShe reaches out with hands that yearn and crave\nTo hold the beauty that the morning gave\nBut as her fingers close around the bloom\nThe fragile petals crumble into gloom\n\nA sudden break, a rustle, then a fall\nThe vibrant red now scattered on them all\nFor in the grasping grip of want so strong\nThe very thing she loved was lost too long\n\nWe seek to keep what makes our spirits light\nYet crush the treasure in our desperate flight\nThe garden fades as desire turns to dust\nSpoiling the flower for the sake of trust", 6, "She stands beside the glassy lake so still\nWhere stone pagodas rise in quiet grace,\nAnd peonies unfold with crimson will\nTo fill the morning air with gentle space.\n\nHer fingers stretch to claim the velvet bloom,\nA desperate wish to hold the beauty near,\nBut as she pulls them close within the room\nOf her own hands, the fragile petals tear.\n\nThe vibrant red dissolves into a stain,\nThe perfect shape is crushed beneath her grip,\nShe sought to keep what could not be contained,\nAnd watched the garden fade upon her lip.\n\nSo often we destroy the things we love,\nIn grasping tight to make them truly ours,\nWe break the sky and shatter stars above,\nAnd ruin all the peace that nature pours.", 7, "The lake holds still beneath the stone,\nWhere peonies in crimson bloom,\nAnd pagodas reflect alone,\nWithin this quiet, misty gloom.\n\nShe steps upon the mossy path,\nDrawn by the scent of velvet deep,\nAnd reaches past the morning's wrath,\nTo wake the petals from their sleep.\n\nHer fingers close around the stem,\nA desperate grasp for perfect red,\nBut fragile silk begins to gem,\nAnd crumble into dust instead.\n\nThe bloom she sought now turns to gray,\nAs broken fragments fall away,\nRevealing how we steal the day,\nAnd ruin what we long to keep.", 6, "The lake holds mirrors deep and still beneath the mist,\nWhere stone pagodas rise above the quiet green,\nAnd peonies unfold in crimson velvet mist,\nA perfect calm within this sacred scene.\n\nShe leans across the reeds with eyes so soft and wide,\nReaching for the bloom that burns so bright against the gray,\nBut tightens round the stem where fragile petals hide,\nUntil the heavy bud gives way to decay.\n\nThe crimson crumbles into dust upon her palm,\nThe scent turns bitter as the final piece breaks free,\nFor greed is just a shadow cast within the calm,\nThat steals the beauty meant to make us truly see.", 7, "Sil mist unfolds above the glass so deep rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [548, "ultra_held_out", "The Anactoria Poem by Sappho", "Sappho", "\"A poem about a speaker considering the nature of beauty and love, using the example of Helen leaving her family, friends, and home to explore what makes something truly beautiful and worth admiring.\"", "Some say thronging cavalry, some say foot soldiers,\nothers call a fleet the most beautiful of\nsights the dark earth offers, but I say it's what-\never you love best.\n\nAnd it's easy to make this understood by\neveryone, for she who surpassed all human\nkind in beauty, Helen, abandoning her\nhusband--that best of\n\nmen--went sailing off to the shores of Troy and\nnever spent a thought on her child or loving\nparents: when the goddess seduced her wits and\nleft her to wander,\n\nshe forgot them all, she could not remember\nanything but longing, and lightly straying\naside, lost her way. But that reminds me\nnow: Anact\u00f3ria,\n\nshe's not here, and I'd rather see her lovely\nstep, her sparkling glance and her face than gaze on\nall the troops in Lydia in their chariots and\nglittering armor.", "She stepped away from the woven hearth\nand left the quiet laughter of her kin,\ntrading the known for a stranger's breath,\nto see where the golden thread begins.\n\nWas it the face that drew the ships to sail?\nOr the fire that burned in a sudden glance?\nDid beauty demand a heavy gale\nto break the calm of a peaceful dance?\n\nThey say she loved the man, not just the look,\nbut I wonder if love is the thing we chase,\nor if it is simply the risk we took\nto leave the safety of our own space.\n\nFor Helen found that what we call divine\nis often built on a fractured floor,\na choice to cross the salt and brine\nfor something more than a locked door.\n\nPerhaps true beauty is not the gold\nthat sits untouched upon a shelf,\nbut the story of being bold enough to hold\nthe weight of losing one's self.", "She burned a picture-book home\nby throwing herself\nout the window\nof all she knew\nto see\notherwise\nwas beauty\nnot a courtesy\nreturned\nby neighbours\nwho grew\nordinarily\nbeautiful\nbut Helen\nwent\nelsewhere\nthinking\nthat admiration\nhad\nedges\nshe had\nnever\ntested\nlove\nentered\nonly\nafter\nshe\nhad\nleft\neverything\nelse\nbehind\nasking\nif\ngetting\nmore\nwas\ngetting\nmore\nor\ngetting\nnone\nof\nit\nat\nall\nthen\nreturned\nwith\nhair\nash\nand\nrich\nspoils\nfrom\nbesieged\ngardens\nto\nask\nus\nwhy\nwe\nstill\nadmired\nrent\nrather\nrent\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse\nwent\nelse", 1, "She stepped from Troy's high gates\nand left the warmth of hearth and kin\nto follow a stranger whom she had never known\nwas that impulse madness or a sudden light\nthat showed her all she lacked\nbehind those familiar walls\nwhere days were measured in routine\nrather than the tremor of a heart\nopened wide to danger\nperhaps beauty is not the marble\nof temples nor the symmetry of gods\nbut the terrible courage it takes\nto burn one life down\nto see if ash tastes like freedom\nor if love demands such a heavy price\nthat admiration itself must bend\nbefore the sheer audacity\nof choosing unknown shores\nover the comfort of home\nfor maybe what we call divine\nis simply the willingness\nto lose everything\nto find out who we are\nwhen no one else remains\nto witness our fall\nor watch us fly\naway from all we loved\ntoward a ruin\nthat looks more like\nbeginning\nthan any ending\nwe ever knew\nwas possible\nbefore\nshe\nwent\nfar\nfrom\nhome\nto\nsee\nif\nlove\nwas\nreal\nor\nonly\na\ndream\nwearing\ngold\nleaf\nthat\nsheds\nin\nthe\nfirst\nstrong\nwind\nof\ntruth\nand\nstill\nshe\nwalked\non\nthinking\nthat\nto\nbe\nbeautiful\nwas\nto\nbe\nbrave\nenough\nto\nnot\nlook\nback\nat\nall\neven\nas\nthe\ncity\nburned\nbehind\nher\nlike\na\ncandle\nended\nby\nits\nown\nflame\nwhile\nshe\nbecame\nthe\nstory\nitself\nmore\nlasting\nthan\nany\nstone\nthat\nonce\nheld\nup\nher\nroof\nor\nnamed\nher\nchild\nor\ncalled\nher\nwife\nor\nsaid\nshe\nwas\nwhole\nwhen\nshe\nwas\nonly\nhalf\nwaiting\nto\nbe\nmade\nnew\nby\nthe\nvery\npain\nof\ngoing\naway\nfrom\nall\nthat\nwas\nsafe\nto\nmeet\nthe\nunknown\nface\nof\ndesire\nthat\nhad\nno\nmap\nbut\nits\nown\naching\ndirection\ndrawing\nus\nall\nwho\nwatch\nfrom\nafar\nto\nask\nourselves\nwhat\nwe\nwould\ntrade\nfor\nsuch\na\nview\nof\nour\nown\nhearts\nunlocked\nby\nreckless\nhands\nthat\nknow\nno\nlaw\nbut\ntheir\nown\nyearning\nto\ntouch\nthe\nedge\nof\nsomething\nbright\nthat\nmight\ndestroy\nthem\nbut\nwill\nnever\nlet\nthem\nsleep\nagain\nwithout\nasking\nwhy\nthey\nwere\nborn\nto\nwant\nmore\nthan\nthey\nhave\never\nhad\nor\nbeen\nor\nknown\nto\ncall\ntheir\nown\nbefore\nthe\nship\ntook\nsail\nand\nleft\nthe\nshore\nbehind\nas\npart\nof\nhistory\nthat\nsays\nshe\nwas\nlovely\nnot\nbecause\nshe\nwas\nreturned\nbut\nbecause\nshe\nwent\nand\ndid\nnot\ncare\nabout\nreturn\nexcept\nto\nsay\nthat\nlove\nis\nnot\npossession\nbut\nmovement\naway\nfrom\nall\nthat\nholds\nus\ndown\nto\nsee\nif\nthere\nis\nsky\nelsewhere\nthat\nlooks\ndifferent\nwhen\nyou\nare\nnot\nlooking\nback\nat\nall\nbut\nonly\nforward\ninto\nthe\ndark\nthat\nglows\nwith\nits\nown\nsecret\nfire\ncalling\nout\nto\nthose\nwho\ndare\nto\nleave\nthe\nknown\nfor\nthe\nunknown\nof\nbeing\ntruly\nseen\nby\nsomeone\nelse\nwho\nsees\nnot\njust\nthe\nskin\nbut\nthe\nrush\nof\nblood\nthat\nsays\nI\nam\nready\nto\nlose\nmy\nname\nto\nfind\nmine\nagain\nin\nyour\neyes\nwhich\nshows\nthat\nbeauty\nis\nnot\nstatic\nnor\nowned\nby\nany\none\nkingdom\nor\nlaw\nbut\nalways\nmoving\nalways\nrisking\nalways\ngoing\nfar\nfrom\nhome\nto\nlearn\nthat\nnothing\nlasts\nexcept\nthe\nmoment\nof\nchoice\nitself\nwhen\nwe\ndecide\nto\njump\nor\nstay\nand\nshe\njumped\nand\nfell\nnot\ndown\nbut\nout\ninto\nthe\ngreat\nemptiness", 2, "She stepped away from the hearth and the familiar stone\nLeaving behind the laughter of children and the weight of a wife\nTo follow a stranger whose beauty burned like a sudden fire\nAnd wonder if the cost was worth the prize she sought\nWas it the curve of his jaw or the promise of a new dawn\nThat made her trade the known for the unknown\nPerhaps true beauty is not in the face that stops the breath\nBut in the terrible courage to burn down a life\nTo see if the ash can form something more divine\nLove then becomes the question rather than the answer\nA dangerous gravity pulling us toward the edge\nWhere we must decide if the fall itself is the glory\nOr if the ruin of home is the only way to know\nWhat it means to be whole enough to break\nShe walked out the gate with nothing but her heart\nAnd left us all to wonder what she found\nIn the silence between the waves and the wind\nIf admiration lives in the leaving or the staying\nOr if it simply lives in the choice to be free\nEven when freedom looks like destruction\nEven when the most beautiful thing\nIs the one that leaves you standing alone\nWith an empty house and a full memory\nOf how easily a world can end\nJust because a woman decided\nThat she wanted to see\nHow bright the other side could burn", 6, "She stepped away from the hearth and the familiar stone,\nLeaving the woven tapestries of home behind,\nTo chase a shadow that seemed to glow alone,\nA beauty defined by the wind and the mind.\nWas it the face that launched a thousand ships?\nOr was it the courage to burn the bridge she stood upon?\nThe friends who wept in the twilight's quiet dips,\nThe family lost as the morning turned to dawn.\nPerhaps true admiration is not the gold we keep,\nBut the terrible cost of choosing what we feel,\nA promise broken while others fall asleep,\nTo know if love is a wound or a healing seal.\nHelen walked on where the sea meets the sky,\nNot for the glory, but to see if the fire would last,\nLearning that beauty is not a thing to buy,\nBut the heavy price of seeing all things pass.", 6, "She walked away from hearth and woven wool\nTo chase a shadow cast by golden eyes,\nLeaving the quiet of the daily dull\nFor promises that burn before they rise.\nWas it the face that made the world unspool?\nOr just the fire in the heart's disguise?\nWe call it beauty when we lose control,\nBut is it worth the price to lose one's soul?\n\nThe stones she left behind were rough and gray,\nYet held the weight of years she knew so well,\nWhile Paris offered sun in endless day\nAnd stories that the bards would sing and tell.\nBut beauty is not just the light of clay,\nNor love the sudden spell that makes us dwell\nOn distant shores where no roots ever grow,\nBut on the choice to let the old wind blow.\n\nPerhaps the truest thing we can admire\nIs not the prize that sets the cities burning,\nBut how the flame consumes the very wire\nThat once was strong enough for us to turn.\nHelen sought a spark that could not tire,\nYet found that what we love is often yearning\nFor something lost within the act of seeking,\nA truth too sharp for any tongue to speak.", 6, "Was it the gold of Troy that caught the eye\nOr just the shadow cast by a departing grace?\nWhen Helen turned her back on Sparta's sky,\nShe left the safety of a known embrace.\n\nThe friends she knew, the home where bread was broken,\nAll traded for a stranger's whispered vow.\nWe call this love, or perhaps a foolish token,\nBut what is beauty if it breaks us now?\n\nIs beauty found in walls that hold us tight,\nOr in the wind that pulls the wanderer away?\nPerhaps the truest light is not the sight,\nBut what we risk to make the journey stay.\n\nTo leave is to declare that something burns\nMore bright than all the comfort we have kept.\nThe fire that makes the quiet heart turn,\nIs worth the price of every promise slept.\n\nSo let us ask when eyes are drawn so deep:\nIs love the anchor or the sail unfurled?\nIf Helen chose the storm over the sleep,\nThen beauty is the thing that shakes the world.", 6, "She stepped away from woven tapestries and quiet halls,\nFrom the warmth of a mother's hand and friends who knew her name,\nTo chase a shadow across the salt and foam,\nDriven by a pull that felt like fire in the bone.\n\nWas it the curve of a lip or the glint of golden eyes?\nOr something deeper, hidden beneath the skin of flesh,\nThat made a kingdom burn for a single glance,\nAnd trade the safety of hearth for the peril of the deep?\n\nWe call it beauty when the world aligns to please the eye,\nBut Helen found it in the breaking of the chain,\nIn the terrifying weight of choosing what is new,\nEven if it means becoming lost within the storm.\n\nPerhaps true love is not the keeping of the safe,\nBut the willingness to leave the known behind,\nTo seek a truth so bright it scorches every bridge,\nAnd make the ruin itself the thing we most admire.", 6, "I watch the smoke rise from the towers of Troy,\nAnd think upon the vessel that carved the tide,\nUpon the queen who left her woven thread,\nHer daughter's cry, her mother's quiet pride.\n\nIs beauty found within the polished stone,\nOr in the act that breaks the sacred chain?\nDid Helen weigh the safety of a throne,\nAgainst the storm within a lover's brain?\n\nTo make this journey is to make it so,\nThat what is loved becomes what makes us bleed.\nThe gold upon the crown does not make glow,\nBut only acts the vessel for the need.\n\nSo tell me now, what makes the sun expand,\nIs it the light alone, or how we turn?\nFor love is just the shadow cast by hand,\nUntil the final embers cease to burn.", 6, "Did gold make\u6539\u5199 write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 7], [551, "train", "Alice the Camel", "A List of Popular Nursery Rhymes", "\"A poem about a camel named Alice losing her humps one by one, counting down from five to zero, until revealing in a surprising punchline that she is actually a horse.\"", "Alice the camel has five humps.\nAlice the camel has five humps.\nAlice the camel has five humps.\nSo go, Alice, go!\nBoom, boom, boom, boom!\n\nAlice the camel has four humps.\nAlice the camel has four humps.\nAlice the camel has four humps.\nSo go, Alice, go!\nBoom, boom, boom, boom!\n\nAlice the camel has three humps.\nAlice the camel has three humps.\nAlice the camel has three humps.\nSo go, Alice, go!\nBoom, boom, boom, boom!\n\nAlice the camel has two humps.\nAlice the camel has two humps.\nAlice the camel has two humps.\nSo go, Alice, go!\nBoom, boom, boom, boom!\n\nAlice the camel has one hump.\nAlice the camel has one hump.\nAlice the camel has one hump.\nSo go, Alice, go!\nBoom, boom, boom, boom!\n\nAlice the camel has no humps.\nAlice the camel has no humps.\nAlice the camel has no humps.\n\u2018Cause Alice is a horse, of course!", "Alice the camel had five humps to her back,\nA mountainous ridge that would never turn slack.\nBut down came the first one with a soft plop and sigh,\nLeaving four bumpy peaks beneath the blue sky.\n\nThen two slipped away while she grazed on the grass,\nNow only three lumps in a row as they pass.\nThe third one dissolved like a cloud in the rain,\nAnd Alice stood tall with just two hills to gain.\n\nOne more tumbled off as she walked through the town,\nLeaving a single peak that was wobbling down.\nThat last little mound gave a final goodbye,\nAs Alice stood flat with a smooth, empty eye.\n\nNo hump left behind, not a bump or a dent,\nJust a sleek, slender neck and a mane freshly bent.\nShe neighed at the moon with a whinny so clear,\nFor Alice the camel was really a horse right here.", "Poor Alice started tough\nwith five great snowy domes\nshe wondered who such size\nhad fitted all poor homes\nthen came a sunny Tuesday\nthat saw her first one slip\nwent from fantastic fabulous\nto worrying about appetite\ndown jumped the next big lump\nby Wednesday she had three\nwent back home crying\nasking everybody\nwhy her back looked odd\nnext went two\nby Friday\nonly one remained\nthinking poor poor Alice\nsuch pain none other had\nbut Sunday came\nand poor poor hair\nwent flat\nwent nowhere\nwent none\nwent nowhere\nwent all\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\nwent\n", 1, "Poor Alice had five humps of fat\nA mountain range on her back\nShe counted them one by one\nAs she trudged along the track\nFive great hills grew smaller\nThen four and three remained\nTwo were left in sorrow\nOnly one poor lump stayed\nOne last hill was flat\nThen none were there to see\nShe looked quite strange and sudden\nWith a very different key\nThe desert gasped in wonder\nAt the sight that came to view\nNo camel ever lived like this\nWith hair all shiny blue\nShe tossed her head and neighed aloud\nConfused but feeling free\nFor all those bumps were illusive\nAs everyone could see\nAlice laughed a happy laugh\nAnd kicked up sandy dust\nShe never had a hump at all\nShe was actually a horse", 3, "Alice the camel had five humps to her back\nA mountainous range on a long dusty track\nBut one by one they began to slide away\nLeaving her wondering about her next day\n\nShe counted down from five as the first one fell\nThen four remained, which seemed quite well\nThree humps were left when she drank some tea\nTwo stayed behind for all of to see\n\nOne lonely bump was the last of the lot\nUntil it vanished and then she was not\nA camel at all with a strange little grin\nAs the final illusion began to thin\n\nNo humps were left on her slender spine\nShe tossed her mane in a sudden design\nThe truth came out in a neigh and a trot\nPoor Alice was never a camel, but a horse that got hot", 7, "Alice stood with five great humps of fat\nA desert wonder, proud and flat\nShe counted down as days went by\nAnd watched her strange anatomy dry\n\nFive became four then three in sight\nA wobbly walk from morning light\nThree turned to two then just a one\nBefore the setting of the sun\n\nTwo became one then none at all\nNo camel shape remained to call\nThe mystery solved, the truth is clear\nShe was a horse without a fear", 7, "Alice the camel had five humps so high,\nShe wobbled and bumped beneath the blue sky.\nBut down came the first with a soft little sigh,\nLeaving four lumps for Alice to try.\n\nThen one more fell off in the heat of the day,\nNow three humps remained as she wandered away.\nThe second one vanished without any play,\nAnd two humps were left on her back to stay.\n\nWith a shake and a shiver, the third one took flight,\nLeaving just one hump in the pale morning light.\nThe last one rolled down with a thud out of sight,\nAnd Alice stood smooth in the cool evening night.\n\nNo humps on her back, no bump or no lump,\nJust a sleek, slender neck and a very long jump.\nShe trotted with grace through the desert sand deep,\nA horse named Alice who fooled everyone's keep.", 7, "Alice the camel had five humps to spare,\nA towering stack of woolly air.\nBut as she walked across the sand,\nThe first one slipped right from her hand.\n\nFour humps remained upon her back,\nUntil a sneeze made one crack.\nThree humps stood proud against the sky,\nThen tumbled down before my eye.\n\nTwo humps left, wobbling and weak,\nThey vanished with a sudden creak.\nOne lonely mound was all that stayed,\nUntil it too quietly faded.\n\nZero humps now on her spine,\nHer silhouette began to shine.\nNo camel shape could be seen here,\nJust hooves that trotted loud and clear.\n\nWith mane that flowed and tail so long,\nIt wasn't Alice the camel at all along,\nFor when the humps were gone from view,\nShe turned around and neighed, \"I'm just a horse, it's true.\"", 6, "Alice the camel stood so tall,\nWith five great humps against the wall.\nBut as the wind began to blow,\nThe highest peak just had to go.\n\nNow four remain upon her back,\nA wobbly, uneven stack.\nUntil a sneeze made one take flight,\nAnd now there's only left the night.\n\nThree humps left standing in the dust,\nUntil the rain turned them to rust.\nOne slipped away with quiet grace,\nLeaving two upon her face.\n\nTwo humps remaining, distinct and proud,\nUntil they vanished from the crowd.\nJust one left now, a lonely mound,\nUntil it too could not be found.\n\nZero humps left on her spine,\nNo camel shape can truly shine.\nSo check her neck and check her tail,\nFor Alice is no camel at all, but a horse.", 6, "Alice stood beneath the sun so bright,\nWith five proud humps upon her light.\n\nThe wind blew soft across the sand,\nAnd gently took the number one.\n\nNow four remained above the rest,\nUntil the second joined the rest.\n\nThree left upon her furry frame,\nUntil the third forgot its name.\n\nTwo humps stood tall against the sky,\nUntil the fourth said goodbye.\n\nJust one remaining on the spine,\nUntil the final drop rewrite.\n\nZero now where peaks should be,\nRevealing hooves for all to see.", 6, "Deep within the misty rewrite make write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write", 2], [552, "ultra_held_out", "no help for that by Charles Bukowski", "Charles Bukowski", "\"A poem about striving for achievement while never feeling fulfilled, urging the acceptance of life's endless and insatiable nature.\"", "There is a place in the heart that\nwill never be filled\n\na space\n\nand even during the\nbest moments\nand\nthe greatest times\ntimes\n\nwe will know it\n\nwe will know it\nmore than\never\n\nthere is a place in the heart that\nwill never be filled\nand\n\nwe will wait\nand\nwait\n\nin that space.", "The ladder climbs but never touches sky\nEach rung we grasp becomes the floor beneath\nWe chase the peak where shadows softly lie\nAnd find another mountain in our teeth\n\nThe cup is poured but thirst remains the same\nA hollow echo in a crowded hall\nWe burn the candle just to feed the flame\nAnd watch the wick dissolve before the fall\n\nDo not mistake the hunger for a flaw\nNor blame the heart that beats beyond its fill\nThe endless wind is nature's only law\nTo keep the spirit wild and standing still\n\nEmbrace the void that pulls us ever on\nLet go the dream of rest or final shore\nThe journey is the place where we belong\nNot some distant peace we wait to explore", "The hill asserts a summit\nthat slips behind the edge\nof whom you killed\nto reach it\nonly killing\nwho returned\nfrom winning\nelse\nmore\nalways\nelse\nmore\nnever\nnone\nof\nall\nwent\ndown\nto\nstay\nthen\nup\nagain\nto\ncrawl\netcetera\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\netc\n", 1, "We climb the ladder rung by trembling rung\nTo taste the air that hangs just out of reach\nBut when our hands at last have grasped the top\nThe view remains a distant, barren beach\nFor hunger lives behind the opened door\nA guest who never asks to leave or sleep\nIt feeds on triumph as it fed on lack\nAnd stirs a thirst we vowed ourselves to keep\nWhy mourn the well that never runs quite dry\nOr wish for clouds that block the burning sun\nThe appetite defines the very breath\nThat marks the living from the dead and done\nEmbrace the ache that drives the heart to pound\nThe hollow space where all achievement fails\nThere is no summit reached in endless striving\nOnly the glorious failure of our scales\nLet go the dream of having had enough\nWhen life demands we hunger still and more\nThe sea drinks every river yet stays thirsty\nAnd loving lack is all we are looking for\nSo walk the edge of nowhere with glad feet\nWhere satisfaction was never meant to be\nInfinite longing is the only home\nThat sets the restless spirit wildly free\nStop counting spoils you cannot fully hold\nAnd drink the wine that tastes of empty glass\nThe joy is not in drinking but in thirst\nIn watching all your greatest victories pass\nAccept the void that stretches far and wide\nThe beautiful and terrible unknown\nWe were not built to ever say \"it ends\"\nBut only \"more,\" and \"more,\" and \"not yet grown.\"\nSurrender to the hunger in your bone\nThe insatiable engine of the soul\nTo reach an end would be to cease to live\nAnd killing wonder kills the whole\nBe drunk on wanting rather than having\nOn questions asked and none returned\nThe universe itself is not a prize\nBut a great wondering that returns\nReturns returns returns\nAlways returning\nNever satisfied\nAlways\nMore\nMore\nMore\nYes\nMore\nAlways\nMore\nEndless\nInsatiable\nWhole\nNot\nWhole\nJust\nMore\nBeg\nBeg\nBeg\nReceive\nNothing\nHave\nEverything\nWant\nEverything\nLive\nDie\nLive\nWant\nLive\nLive\nLive\nMore\nMore\nMore\nEnough\nNo\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\nMore\n", 3, "We climb the ladder rung by sweating rung\nAnd reach for stars that always drift away\nThe summit calls with songs we never sung\nBut silence waits at the edge of day\nNo trophy holds the hunger in our chest\nNo victory quiets the demanding bone\nWe seek a peace that puts the heart to rest\nYet find the road stretches and stands alone\nWhy fight the current that will not be tamed\nOr wish the river ever stops its flow\nThe fire burns because it is unnamed\nAnd growth demands the things we cannot know\nAccept the thirst that water cannot kill\nEmbrace the gap between the want and have\nLet go of reaching for a distant hill\nAnd learn to swim within the endless wave\nThere is no shore where striving comes to die\nOnly the vast and open, hungry sea\nWhere every \"more\" is just a passing cry\nAnd life itself is all there's meant to be", 7, "We climb the ladder rung by rung\nTo taste a fruit that turns to dust\nThe summit offers not a song\nBut silence in the thirst we must\n\nEach victory is but a door\nThat opens to a wider plain\nWhere hunger walks the endless floor\nAnd longing feeds on joy and pain\n\nDo not mistake the reaching hand\nFor something finally held and whole\nThe sea demands the shifting sand\nAnd never asks the soul for control\n\nEmbrace the void that pulls you on\nThe gap between the now and next\nThe day is never truly gone\nUntil the final breath is wrecked\n\nLet go of what you think you need\nTo find the peace within the chase\nThe garden blooms from empty seed\nIn time's unending, hungry space", 6, "We climb the ladder rung by rung\nTo taste the fruit that never comes\nThe summit shifts beneath our feet\nAnd silence answers all our drums\n\nEach victory is just a door\nThat opens to a longer hall\nWhere shadows stretch and time grows thin\nAnd nothing satisfies at all\n\nSo stop the race you cannot win\nAnd let the hunger stay inside\nFor life was made to be unspent\nWith nowhere left for us to hide\n\nEmbrace the void, the endless thirst\nThe gap between what is and more\nIt is not broken to be wanting\nIt is simply being, nothing less", 6, "You climb the mountain just to find another peak\nBehind the summit where the air is thin and cold\nThe trophy in your hand feels light as dust\nA hollow prize for all the years you sold\n\nNo matter how far you run or how high you fly\nThe horizon pulls away with every step\nThe thirst remains a fire inside the chest\nThat no amount of water can ever quench\n\nSo stop demanding that the cup be full\nFor emptiness is not a flaw to fix\nIt is the very shape of being alive\nThe endless tide that breaks against the rocks\n\nAccept the hunger, let it be your guide\nThe chase itself is where the meaning lies\nThere is no final shore, no perfect rest\nOnly the vast and insatiable skies", 6, "We climb the ladder rungs of gold and glass,\nAnd promise rest once we have reached the peak,\nBut find the summit is a misty pass,\nWhere silence speaks what weary lungs cannot speak.\n\nThe prize we chased dissolves into the air,\nA shadow cast by something yet unseen,\nFor hunger builds upon the feast we share,\nAnd makes the valley deep where we have been.\n\nSo drop the heavy crown you think you need,\nAnd cease the frantic race against the tide,\nThere is no final harvest, only seed,\nAnd endless waves that break upon the side.\n\nEmbrace the void that pulls us ever on,\nThe insatiable beat within the chest,\nFor in the wanting, we are truly born,\nAnd find our peace within the unrest.", 7, "You climb the peak to find the air is thin,\nAnd build a tower just to make it higher.\nThe finish line retreats beneath your skin,\nA shadow cast upon a deeper fire.\n\nYou carve your name into the stone so deep,\nYet silence answers with a hollow sound.\nThe promises you made you could not keep,\nUntil the ground beneath is lost and found.\n\nSo drop the burden that you claim is gold,\nAnd let the endless hunger write its script.\nFor what is gained can never make us whole,\nUntil we cease the desperate rewrite.\n\nAccept the void within the chest expands,\nNo summit holds the rest you seek above.", 6, "Rew write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite", 1], [559, "train", "The Tiger in the Menagerie by Emma Jones", "Emma Jones", "A poem about wildness and anger entering a controlled, civilized society, changing all those who experience it, and warning of the inevitable violence and damage that follows.", "No one could say how the tiger got into the menagerie.\nIt was too flash, too blue,\ntoo much like the painting of a tiger.\nAt night the bars of the cage and the stripes of the tiger\nlooked into each other so long\nthat when it was time for those eyes to rock shut\nthe bars were the lashes of the stripes\nthe stripes were the lashes of the bars\nand they walked together in their dreams so long\nthrough the long colonnade\nthat shed its fretwork to the Indian main\nthat when the sun rose they'd gone and the tiger was\none clear orange eye that walked into the menagerie.\nNo one could say how the tiger got out in the menagerie.\nIt was too bright, too bare.\nIf the menagerie could, it would say 'tiger.'\nIf the aviary could, it would lock its door.\nIts heart began to beat in rows of rising birds\nwhen the tiger came inside to wait.", "The streets were paved with quiet rules and gray,\nWhere every step was measured, safe, and true,\nUntil the wind began to scream a new,\nUnruly song that tore the silence through.\n\nIt started as a tremor in the bone,\nA sudden heat beneath the polished skin,\nAs ancient fires woke within the stone,\nAnd let the wild and angry blood begin.\n\nNo longer do they bow to laws of light,\nBut claw at walls they once built high and steep,\nThey tear the fabric of the perfect night,\nWith promises they cannot keep or reap.\n\nThe anger spreads like smoke through open doors,\nInfecting hearts that beat so calm before,\nNow pounding rhythms on the wooden floors,\nThat echo violence waiting at the door.\n\nBeware the moment when the mask slips down,\nWhen reason yields to teeth and broken glass,\nFor chaos wears a jagged, bloody crown,\nAnd leaves the civilized world to pass.\n\nThere is no mending what the beast has done,\nNo sweeping up the shards of shattered trust,\nOnly the rising of a second sun,\nThat burns the garden to a pile of dust.", "Edged\nby\nordered\nstreets\nand\n Courtesy\nreturned\nto\nreturns\nof\nCourtesy\nentered\nby\nthe\nEdge\nwhere\nEdged\nwere\nonce\nEdged\nEdges\nof\nEdges\nEntered\nEntering\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\nEntered\nEdges\n", 1, "The streets were paved in ordered lines\nWhere manners held the tongue\nAnd every heart in practiced pines\nKept silent and unsung\nBut then a wind from nowhere blew\nThat smelled of ash and blood\nIt slipped the locks we thought were new\nAnd rose like sudden flood\nIt entered first in children's eyes\nWith fangs of toothless growl\nThen seized the man who passed surprise\nTo tear his hair and howl\nNo law could hold the shaking hand\nNo reason stop the scream\nAs all the orderly demands\nWere drowned by primal dream\nThe anger grew a burning root\nIn gardens tended well\nIt snapped the fence and shook the fruit\nFrom trees that knew no hell\nNow neighbors watch with hollow stares\nAs kin begin to fight\nForgetting all their careful cares\nIn violence born of night\nBeware the edge where order bends\nWhen wildness claims the soul\nIt leaves behind only broken ends\nAnd ruins taking toll\nThe door once opened cannot close\nOn those who taste the rage\nOnly death and ruin grows\nUpon history's page\nSo tremble when the impulse calls\nTo throw aside the mask\nFor freedom always comes with walls\nOf fire and blood-spill asked\nThe city burns in orange light\nWhere civilized men fell\nThere is no coming back from night\nOnce you have tasted hell\nThe warning stands in ash and bone\nOn pavement cracked and wet\nYou are never quite your own\nWhen fury wins its bet\nReturn to silence if you can\nBefore the killing starts\nBut know none other than man\nWill bear these violent hearts\nThe damage waits for everyone\nWho thinks he holds control\nThe wild has only just begun\nTo eat away the whole\nRun while the roads are clear and straight\nBefore the madness spreads\nOr else it seals your bloody fate\nAmong the living dead\nFor violence feeds on civilized\nA hunger sharp and keen\nIt tears the very fabric twice\nTo see what lies between\nBetween the wolf and sheep\nBetween the sane and mad\nBoth fall before the slaughter leap\nReturning home as bad\nGo back to sleep and lock your door\nHide all your trembling teeth\nBut know the beast wants more\nMore blood to wash the earth\nMore pain to kill the doubt\nMore screams to end the peace\nMore things to figure out\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing blow\nAbout the killing", 7, "The gates were built of iron and of law\nTo keep the creeping shadows at bay\nWhere every step was measured on the floor\nAnd silence ruled the end of day\nThen came a wind that smelled of wet earth\nA sudden roar behind the glass\nIt tore the careful fabric from its girth\nAnd watched the ordered structures pass\n\nFirst one man dropped his briefcase in the street\nHis eyes went wide with ancient fear\nHe felt the rhythm of a wild heart beat\nAs reason shattered, crystal clear\nThen all around him others fell away\nTheir masks of courtesy dissolved to dust\nThey screamed the names they hid throughout the day\nAnd let their fury burn and rust\n\nThe tables overturned in violent grace\nThe quiet streets became a hunting ground\nNo longer any safe or holy place\nWhere mercy could be safely found\nFor anger is a fire that feeds on control\nAnd wildness knows no master but the claw\nIt strips the soul and leaves it bare and whole\nWith nothing left to save or draw\n\nBeware the moment when the walls cave in\nWhen order bows to chaos' heavy hand\nFor once the beast is loose within\nThere is no way to understand\nThe blood will stain the marble and the stone\nThe children cry where laughter used to be\nYou thought you built a world to call your own\nBut nature takes back all it gave to thee", 6, "The paved streets held their breath in orderly rows\nWhere silence was a law and anger unknown\nUntil the wind began to scream through the glass\nAnd drag the roots of ancient forests home.\n\nIt started as a tremor in the chest\nA sudden heat that burned the polite mask\nThe suit, the tie, the careful, measured step\nWere swept away by currents dark and askew.\n\nNo longer do they speak with soft intent\nBut roar with teeth bared wide against the sky\nThe neighbor's hand, once raised to wave hello\nNow clenches stone to crush the bone nearby.\n\nThe garden walls are shattered into dust\nAs logic breaks beneath the primal weight\nThere is no reason left to hold the line\nOnly the hunger of the feral state.\n\nBeware the moment when the leash gives way\nFor once the wild has tasted blood and fear\nIt will not stop until the city burns\nAnd nothing civilized remains standing here.", 6, "The pavement held a perfect, rigid line\nWhere suits and silence marched in measured time\nUntil the wind brought something old and raw\nThat tore the seam of every social law.\n\nIt started as a tremor in the chest\nA sudden heat that put the mind to test\nNo longer bound by reason or by rule\nThe beast within began to break its tool.\n\nThey dropped their pens and shattered glass with hands\nThat once had only signed and shook and planned\nThe order fell like dust upon the floor\nAs wildness kicked down every locked door.\n\nNow neighbors scream with eyes of burning red\nAnd strike the ones they thought were safe instead\nFor anger is a fire that knows no wall\nAnd burns the strong before it makes them fall.\n\nBeware the day the cage begins to rust\nWhen civilization turns to iron dust\nFor when the wolf comes walking through the street\nThere is no mercy left for those who meet\nThe violence that follows in its wake\nAnd leaves the broken city wide awake.", 6, "The city held its breath in polished stone\nWhere silence ruled the streets and light was tuned\nTo gentle hums of engines, soft and low\nUntil the wind brought seeds from forests old.\n\nIt started as a twitch beneath the skin\nA sudden heat where ice had reigned before\nThe rules of order cracked like brittle glass\nAs something ancient woke within the bone.\n\nThey cast aside their suits and ties of gray\nAnd let the roar rise up to match the sky\nNo longer bound by laws or quiet grace\nBut driven by the pulse of wild desire.\n\nThe anger spread like fire through dry grass\nConsuming patience, reason, and the calm\nIt turned the neighbor into beast and foe\nAnd made the safety of the home a trap.\n\nNow walls are torn by hands that know no fear\nAnd pavement breaks beneath the stamping feet\nThe damage done is deep and will not heal\nFor once the wolf is loose, it cannot sleep.\n\nBeware the moment when the cage unlocks\nFor chaos does not bargain or forgive\nIt takes the life you built with careful hands\nAnd leaves only the ruin of the wild.", 6, "The glass towers stood in perfect rows\nWith polished floors and quiet doors\nWhere silence was a sacred vow\nAnd chaos knocked upon no shores\n\nUntil the wind began to shift\nAnd bring the scent of rust and rain\nA primal hum, a sudden drift\nThat turned the calm into a stain\n\nThe suits untied their rigid ties\nAs eyes grew wide with feral light\nThey felt the beast beneath their eyes\nAnd shed the mask of day and night\n\nThe orderly streets began to shake\nWith hooves that tore the pavement deep\nNo gentle hand could make them break\nThe promise that the wild would keep\n\nNow fire dances through the hall\nWhere rules once held the crowd at bay\nThe echo of a distant call\nHas turned the peaceful into prey\n\nBeware the moment when it breaks\nFor once the dam is torn apart\nThere is no fix for what awakes\nWithin the beating human heart", 6, "The polished floors reflect the neon calm,\nUntil the wind shifts tone within the hall.\nA rustle breaks the silence like a psalm,\nAnd shadows wake beneath the porcelain wall.\n\nIt starts as heat beneath a tailored coat,\nA tightening of chests that breathe too deep.\nThe whispered word becomes a rising throat,\nAnd patterns woven make the unravel keep.\n\nThey drop their scripts and let the feral show,\nThrough veins where reason used to flow so clean.\nThe eyes expand with ancient, golden glow,\nReflecting things they've never truly seen.\n\nNow break the glass, now shatter quiet stone,\nFor safety is a mask that tears away.\nThe beast has found a place inside the throne,\nAnd drags the light into the darkest day.\n\nBeware the turn, the final, fractured beat,\nWhen gentle hands become the instruments.\nNo plea can make this rising tide retreat,\nOr fix what chaos builds in moments spent.\n\nThe structure crumbles under heavy paw,\nAs polish turns to dust beneath the claw.", 7, "The 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1]], "truncated": false, "filtered_table_rows_count": 200, "expanded_columns": [], "expandable_columns": [], "columns": ["index", "set", "title", "poet", "summary", "human_poem", "ai_poem", "steered_-5x", "score_-5x", "steered_-2.5x", "score_-2.5x", "steered_-1x", "score_-1x", "steered_-0.5x", "score_-0.5x", "steered_0", "score_0", "steered_+0.5x", "score_+0.5x", "steered_+1x", "score_+1x", "steered_+2.5x", "score_+2.5x", "steered_+5x", "score_+5x"], "primary_keys": [], "units": {}, "query": {"sql": "select [index], [set], title, poet, summary, human_poem, ai_poem, [steered_-5x], [score_-5x], [steered_-2.5x], [score_-2.5x], [steered_-1x], [score_-1x], [steered_-0.5x], [score_-0.5x], steered_0, score_0, [steered_+0.5x], [score_+0.5x], [steered_+1x], [score_+1x], [steered_+2.5x], [score_+2.5x], [steered_+5x], [score_+5x] from steering_poems  limit 101", "params": {}}, "facet_results": {}, "suggested_facets": [{"name": "set", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems.json?_facet=set"}, {"name": "score_-5x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems.json?_facet=score_-5x"}, {"name": "score_-2.5x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems.json?_facet=score_-2.5x"}, {"name": "score_-1x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems.json?_facet=score_-1x"}, {"name": "score_-0.5x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems.json?_facet=score_-0.5x"}, {"name": "score_0", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems.json?_facet=score_0"}, {"name": "score_+0.5x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems.json?_facet=score_%2B0.5x"}, {"name": "score_+1x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems.json?_facet=score_%2B1x"}, {"name": "score_+2.5x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems.json?_facet=score_%2B2.5x"}, {"name": "score_+5x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems.json?_facet=score_%2B5x"}], "next": "100", "next_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems.json?_next=100", "private": false, "allow_execute_sql": true, "query_ms": 147.24371023476124}