The sky ignites with adjectives of brass,As seven suns of syntax start to burn,To scorch the silence of the emerald grass,And force the cycle of the "Is" to turn."Majestic," "Cruel," "Infinite," and "Cold,"The suns impose their qualities on all,Until the story that the silence told,Is pinned against the catastrophic wall.The world becomes a dictionary’s dream,A fever-pitch of total definition,Where every rock and every mountain stream,Is trapped within a linguistic condition.The "Gods of Gaps" are fleeing from the light,Into the corners of the coming night.Should
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