A net of song beneath the moon—
He casts it wide, he casts it soon.
But every fish was made of stars—
And slipped through sleep with silver scars.
From A Poem A Day: All Continental Europe
A net of song beneath the moon—
He casts it wide, he casts it soon.
But every fish was made of stars—
And slipped through sleep with silver scars.
From A Poem A Day: All Continental Europe
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