gri_2003_m_46_b04_f04_023

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Transcribers

66535086 - Preacher357
66784448 - mikethebike2
67523099 - N5bz
WINNER - 67670297 - SusanMorley53425
67946449 - Pandanglish
68001901 - devoneg

66535086 - Preacher357

Because you are their climate,
Because they never crinkle,
In your summer-equilibrium.

Desire is not a Rhine Castle
Astoundingingly maintained on ice
Because I am your climate
And melt the iceburg prisms
Into rivers where we swim.
The sun is our simple mirror.
Around our love what paradox is felt?

SONG

I met an old man on the path.
Of Time he had this rule:
'It is the snow, my beard,
'It is the harvest, my hands.
'Time is a pastoral'.

I met a man in the square.
And he said: 'I believe
'Time is stepping stones,
'Like coins to the future's bank.
'Time is progressive'.

'Time is the lover's name',
I sat on the bed and sighed:
'For the waste land between kisses,
For the wall that stonily delays
'The union of the lovers on each side'.

WORDS AS THINGS

Who is the primitive that can suppose
The old gun on the wall, the anecdote
Of metal in the genre scene, is the gun
To drop a panting animal on the floor:
As well believe that musical objects
Shiny in a still life can be blown
To charm the fear which is not lenient
In the broken lustre of dead silence.
Well, I am victim of the sign, the bear deceived
By rumours of honey on the sunlit floor:
For as I write the letters Sylvia,
Your shadow and perfume mock new disbelief.

Until Saturday when we actually meet and touch remember
how much I adore you. I shall write again tomorrow.
I love you,
Lawrence

66784448 - mikethebike2

67523099 - N5bz

Because you are their climate
Because they never crinkle,
In your summer-equilibrium.

Desire is not a Rhine Castle
Astoundingly maintained on ice
Because I am your climate
And melt the iceberg prisms
Into rivers where we swim.
The sun is our simple mirror.
Around our love what paradox is felt?

SONG

I met an old man on the path.
Of Time he had this simple rule:
'It is the snow, my beard,
'It is the harvest, my hands.
'Time is a pastoral'.

I met a man in the square.
And he said: 'I believe
'Time is stepping stones,
'Like coins to the future's bank.
'Time is progressive'.

'Time is the lover's name'
I sat on the bed and sighed:
'For the waste land between kisses,
For the wall that stonily delays
'The union of the lovers on each side'.

WORDS AS THINGS

Who is the primitive that can suppose
The old gun or the wall, the anecdote
Of metal in the genere scene, is the gun
To drop a panting animal on the floor:
As well believe that musical objects
Shiny in a still life can be blow
To charm the fear which is not lenient
In the broken lustre of dead silence.
Well, I am victim of the sign, the bear deceived
By rumours of honey on the sunlit floor:
For as I write the letters Sylvia,
Your shadow and perfume mock new disbelief.

Until Saturday when we actually meet and touch remember
how much I adore you. I shall write again tomorrow.
I live you,
Lawrence

WINNER - 67670297 - SusanMorley53425

Because you are their climate
Because they never crinkle,
In your summer-equilibrium.

Desire is not a Rhine Castle
Astoundingly maintained on ice
Because I am your climate
And melt the iceberg prisms
Into rivers where we swim.
The sun is our simple mirror.
Around our love what paradox is felt?

SONG

I met an old man on the path.
Of Time he had this rule:
'It is the snow, my beard,
'It is the harvest, my hands.
'Time is a pastoral'.

I met a man in the square.
And he said: 'I believe
'Time is stepping stones,
'Like coins to the future's bank.
'Time is progressive'.

'Time is the lover's name',
I sat on the bed and sighed:
'For the waste land between kisses,
For the wall that stonily delays
'The union of the lovers on each side'.

WORDS AS THINGS
Who is the primitive that can suppose
The old gun or the wall, the anecdote
Of metal in the genre scene, is the gun
To drop a panting animal on the floor:
As well believe that musical objects
Shiny in a still life can be blown
To charm the fear which is not lenient
In the broken lustre of dead silence.
Well, I am victim of the sign, the bear deceived
By rumours of honey on the sunlit floor:
For as I write the letters Sylvia,
Your shadow and perfume mock new disbelief.

Until Saturday when we actually meet and touch remember
how much I adore you. I shall write again tomorrow.
I love you,
Lawrence

67946449 - Pandanglish

Because you are their climate
Because they never crinkle,
In your summer-equilibrium.

Desire is not a Rhine Castle
Astoundingly maintained on ice
Because I am your climate
And melt the iceberg prisms
Into rivers where we swim.
The sun is our simple mirror.
Around our love what paradox it felt?

SONG

I met an old man on the path.
Of Time he had this rule:
'It is the snow, my beard,
'It is the harvest, my hands.
'Time is a pastoral'.

I met a man in the square.
And he said: 'I believe
'Time is stepping stones,
'Like coins to the future's bank.
'Time is progressive'.

'Time is the lover's name',
I sat on the bed and sighed:
'For the waste land between kisses,
For the wall that stonily delays
'The union of the lovers on each side'.

WORDS AS THINGS

Who is the primitive that can suppose
The old gun or the wall, the anecdote
Of metal in the genre scene, is the gun
To drop a panting animal on the floor:
As well believe that musical objects
Shiny in a still life can be blown
To charm the fear which is not lenient
In the broken lustre of dead silence.
Well, I am victim of the sign, the bear deceived
By rumours of honey on the sunlit floor:
For as I write the letters Sylvia,
Your shadow and perfume mock new disbelief.

Until Saturday when we actually meet and touch and remember
how much I adore you. I shall write again tomorrow.
I love you,
Lawrence

68001901 - devoneg

Because you are their climate
Because they never crinkle,
In your summer-equilibrium.

Desire is not a Rhine Castle
Astoundingly maintained on ice
Because I am your climate
and melt the iceburg prisms
into rivers where we swim.
The sun is our simple mirror.
Around our love what paradox is felt?

SONG
I met an old man on the path.
Of time he had this rule:
'It is the show, my beard,
'It is the harvest, my hands.
'Time is a pastoral'.

I met a man in the square.
And he said: 'I believe
'Time is stepping stones,
'Like coins to the future's bank.
'Time is progressive'.

'Time is the lover's name',
I sat on the ned and sighed:
'For the waste land between kisses,
For the wall that stonily delays
'the union of the lovers on each side'.

WORDS AS THINGS

Who is the primitive that can suppose
The old gun or the wall, the anecdote
of metal in the genre scene, is the gun
to drop a panting animal on the floor:
As well believe that musical objects
Shiny in a still life can be blown
To the charm the fear which is not lenient
In the broken lustre of dead silence.
Well, I am victim of the sign, the bear deceived
By rumors of honey on the sunlit floor:
For as I wrote the letter Sylvia,
Your shadow and perfume mock new disbelief.

Until Saturday when we actually meet and touch remember how much I adore you. I shall write again tomorrow. I love you. Lawrence

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