They flap, into trees, and these
Need be the breezes that flee
Through the holes in Swiss cheeses
With no one to show where they
Blow, nor to flow ever slower
And slower, not knowing
We go where they go, that we
Do what they do not in lieu
Of the clouds that surround their
High site with that blinding rich
White that their blinds never quite
Want to rain, want to paint all
In vain, ‘til it drains them of
Rue that they knew whence they blew.
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