This land is mine and I shall erect a house on the mountain top; says the farmer of the fairy farm, for he grows angels and fairies to sell to the people of the plains where angels wither and fairies knows not how to fly. Thus said, he build a house with a spire high in the sky for he wish to watch, how the people in the plains treat his angels and his fairies.
One morning, the sun is in eclipse and the earth crepuscular;
Mountain wind wuthered by, as he spies an wanton man in the plain spoils an angel in mirth and glee.
One morning the wind is crisp and the moon still hanging
Mountain wind wuthered by, as he spies an wanton man in the plain, clipping the wings of a fairy maiden in mirth glee.
Sick at his heart, the farmer closed his eyes never to open again ...
So I write whatever I see from my moving train:
naughty god
a dog
a blind man
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