More than cuboids in translation
You would know, poked with a lance,
The freedom of the merest complication
Walk as you would up through the fields
Your eyes blessed, by sight of straight
Ploughed furrows, and the flight of
The well made, dry stone walls
Remember the farmers dance
Silage, as the backdrop sensation
No more in it than a sideways glance
The intricacies of interwoven duplication
Walk as you would to the high ground
Your soul refreshed, by the light on
The sheaves of corn, the light of
Well made thoughts for the day
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