And in death is there birth, and in birth--is there death? A pall bearer is the midwife when the hearse gives birth. He takes the coffin and buries the prince in that from which he came. And so a child is born; and eternal slumber drunk from the words of a bat. And all the people want to die.
Has anyone ever told you of the Bard's song? Of the damsel who rests in a peace like a meadow in the wood? While spiders web blankets of silk across her face, and mice leave nibbles on her robes. And the people tarry on, tarry on and on and on.
A tower is only as tall as so many words. The monotony of building drones. Mortar is mad from lies, and bricks are made from jabs. The foundation is formed from crackling laughter and the window panes from a broken gasp. And the people eat deceit and lies for noon meals to curb their appetites for peace. The lady whispers breathing in rhythms. No one envies her.
Light becomes soaked with black paint. The cycle continues, life as it were. Sleeping beauty never promenades to the market, never waltzes in a turn, and never touches a man she loves just to feel that soft burn. Feathers caress her face as the people strive to live a life without strife. Yet the people ignore the princess and her eternal sleep of death.
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