Stop the pain and its origin, locked by the fanging grips of the wind and the roll of the soil. Stop the pain and its place, spooled through the accent of false tongue and teasing finger lost in the woods of shadow bound towards the maze of men. The pain and its time, feeding on the honesty of the proud and poor hustle to the carcass clover and designs for health striking the eye by the brain sending all lashes to the fall to froth. Stop the pain to its end, and build home on the hill that sings… sings songs by the pain of the birds.