KEEP THE MARGIN ACTIVE
There's nothing pure left. That old, rustic church
on the footpath to Blight Ridge, it bespeaks another
age - when purity reigned. Peasants in a circle, singing.
Farmhands loaned out, raising barns and raising bridges.
Nothing goes on with direction : the one match that lights
a hundred fires. Two men stand, leaning against a thick,
wooden fence. They're close to disagreeing about
something - I can sense their anger rising. Towards
each other, and all about, to everything else as well.
There really isn't anything pure left.
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