image and likeness of every man's, <br />curve in a given <br />time, seated as it form in a <br />sharp blade, ready to post in each <br />corner, silent but ready to be respected <br />and adore in many ways <br /> <br />stein of smoke crowded with flowers <br />waiting to a whispering lips of hope and <br />benevolent toss <br />almost all have gone, yet few have <br />survive, for the blind can see and the deaf <br />can hear for nothing is impossible to <br />listen than to talk in the <br />heart of wish <br /> <br />let the whole catacomb <br />cried and the swollen tears <br />seen as it falls to each lips; together <br />murmurs with pain, the poor <br />heart lifted the soul, hidden in the <br />valley of pain <br /> <br />incense burn boom to fire, <br />chanted with passion <br />to hear, and the choir echo the sweet <br />lines of compassion passing the line <br />of heaven to take a nap of rest <br /> <br />nape my solemn hymn and hail my <br />lips with praise...<br /><br />Antonio Liao<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wooden-god/
