Flowing from the teachers 
( A sonnet by Severina ) 
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A spasm of frustration speaks. 
Their mysterious priestess mourns , yet still children speak falling beneath the waterfall. 
Why indeed are those knives helpless? 
Those elves slumber lustfully above the contentment... 
A mother dies , their meadow dreaming of a unknown vampire plots. 
But somehow a grass attacks their desert... 
Did I still mourn? 
In my childhood I was shattered , yet still at last it is as sinuous as my saint of peacefulness. 
A mountain lying upon a flaming mirage mourns , the teacher flutters. 
In my childhood I was comforting , and yet at last they are healed... 
Their meadow searching for a lovely sky calls to the lost werebeast. 
The fool of bitterness heals the mirage inside the unknown mirage, unseeingly. 
Did I nevermore laugh hopelessly above the memory? 
Have their reptiles trusted their foul petals? 
Have familiar fireflies forgot the magyckal thoughts..? 
At last you are victim-envenomed!

Original URL: jbrowse.com (has been defunct for some time)

Wayback Machine Archive. The original Ruby code can be found there as well.