Wednesday, December 04, 2024 Text is available under the CC BY-SA 3.0 licence.

Nick Cave

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Along crags and sunless cracks I go,
Up rib of rock, down spine of stone,
I dare not slumber where the right winds whistle,
Lest her creeping-soul clutch this heart of thistle.

 
Nick Cave

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mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill:
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