the song of the streets [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.268]

this is a very low temperature poem at 0.2 yet it's a bit more experimental than you'd expect at that temp. 

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I speed the song of the streets and the sunshine of the world,
I saw the shape of the brain and heavy and the streets,
And the charms that rise and speak to me, and I am a man who has served me in the world,
I believe in the midst of the morning and the stars and the streets and the stars.

     15
The brood of the master of the mountains, the river and the sun,
I see the silent sun and trees in the sky,
And all the world was born, the body of the world is only heard of the soul,
And when I got a starving while the sun is strong, and the mothers of men and
    women and shows and stones,
I feel the old inexplicable with the strong and country at the start.

  The State of Manhattan,
And the same and mercy walks a starlight,
And the same old streets are there to see,
And the soul is of the children's breast than speaks to me,
The soul is of the world over the river and the stars.

     16
The sparkles and the mountains of the morning wait,
The sound of the mountains of the storm, the streets and the broad bayonets,
The shade walks a fine batteries, where the stars are crown'd with
    the stars,
And the stones of the soul is not so strong and death,
I see the soul of all the rest is the world over and over and
    and where is the sky in the woods and stones,
It is the spirit of the rest is the main, and the master and the stars
    and the stars.

     40
I see the first tongue of the chant,
The farmer the same and farthest limbs and processions are for the sunshine,
And I knew the soul into myself to me as I love.

     5
We are worth of the more than one who lived in the soul,
The dead old man has been without person for them,
And who there is no harm to tell you you may be the same.

     16
The bayonets of the rest, the last of the stars and the branches of the bay-shopping,
Always the same as the stars were the same,
The soul--the stars with the bells, the body of the grave,
    the streets of the streets, or on the sky,
    the stars and the fluttering of the sky,
And the stars are never the sun is the same which I was born,
The stars and the bullets of the road and the stars.

     16
The beautiful are the most speech of the morning and the words,
I see the soul of my own soul are free to me,
The same old song, the stars and monsters and the water,
The stars of the forests of the soul,
The soul is not belief and the same as the sun shines on the stars.

     16
I saw the ship of the puzzle, and the strong storm-clothes and the
    sunshine and stopping for their forms,
The soul--the spirit of the rest in the midst of the
    farmer of the world,
The man who had been and broke and round and retice.)

     4
I know I shall be there upon the sun,
I too am I at the track the lake and singing to me,
I see the soul of all that is the same.

  The same old song,
A song that cannot be a ship as for the soul.

     16
The speaker was a red friend of the husband,
And I see the soul of all the songs, the soul is to the same,
And what is this the true love that cannot be a sailor.

The soul is not more than a man who loves you from them,
    and with the soul in the midst,
And so long and long to see the same as the sun is servile and sunbulge,
It cannot forget the promise of myself, and what is it, or the same as the same,
And what is it in the morning and the stars and the stars.

     4
I am a few mornings of perfect song,
And the same old man who had been so strong and dead,
And what has his superb? how can I say?
I am a farthest night I made a song,
And so I cannot see the soul that seals his works or any more,
He stands at the start of the belly of the sky.

A moment of the morning where I was the same
    strength,
What I can say it all will not be the same.

  The same old song,
As I walk the streets and stretch'd with and bringing away,
And I saw them as I walk'd the stars and steals the stretch,
And the stretch of the rails and the fields and the blue-sea,
The sun will be confined by a man and woman I love,
The soul--the strong stars with the crowd where the stretch of the waters the
    trembling track stands the steamboat like a flutter of the sun,
I go to the sun and start and strap and drows out their towels,
I see the brightness of my lips struck me and waiting for you,
I know the promptless and beloved of the rest,
I have seen the ones of all the rest is the greatest of part, I see myself.

     3
I am a free companion of the world,
I speed I heard it in the same time to me, I am a man who;
The charm of my love is a prison's joys.

     14
The soul--thou polite passes on the sour,
And a stranger walks and spared it up, the same and dead and superb,
    the shape of the stars,
The blood of the mountains are free and trees,
The shape of the southern pastures of the soul,
The stars that stand and down the streets and stones of men.

     15
The soul--the stars the stars are crowding and blooming
    and stretch, and the steamblates of hair and peace,
A real to the new-brown farms, the shadowy mountains,
The shadowy passing the stretch of the showers and the stars.

  The singers were not the sun,
I see the songs of the rest of the rest and price and price,
And all the world over and the strong and soul of the soul,
And strike up the farm with the southern storm, the priceless world is only one
    single orbs,
The same and stranger that will not be as great,
The many a good and dead and soul of the morning where they are all singing.

     2
I see the soul of the soul,
And all the world is the work of an artilleeria.

O the first I might not dwelt me not to be known,
It seems to me this woman of the world he sail'd,
I see that which has been beforehand before the same.

     5
We are the voices of all that has been answer'd with me,
If they are not my material eyes,
Proved to me this day beyond cavil the sun and moon and flying
    clouds, as one with them but a test to him,
A song is gross to tell you whoever you are, you shall keep you there,
I blow the lead of the clock in its mate, and the same white face of
    the sea,
In its many a mad and much to be a sailor's jet problem.

     3
I see the States are my in the house and spade, I pass them as I love you,
I know that we may not see if I could not see me any more than it will not see where they are not my day or start.

     4
The soul--the stars are free, and understanding, and the songs,
The stars and the forests of the soul,
The streets and slow and streets and stones of men and women,
And the poet shouts of the streets and the blocks of high children,
Where the steamblates pass the trees of the past, the main stock strikes up and
    returning their silences,
The flags of the stars and the first tinge of the storm,
The storm-clouds and the flowers of the stars and the blocks of high woods,
The stars of the stars and the holy wolves of poems,
The enemy the earth is the master of the world.

The spirit of life complains the song and reasons of my love,
I could not see the charges of my life or the same.

  The speaker walks the stars and stones the stars,
And the strong scent of the river, the soul is the master and of the
    monotonous person who was born,
The same old smile was born, the maidens and the stars and
    many a starving soul,
The sight is the procession of a life, the soul is not retiring about the same.

     15
The procession of the future, and the soul,
America justifies itself with all the rest of the present.

  the sprig of the river spare,
A brood of pride and death--it is the same as the sun was between them,
In the house with the stars and the stars.

     3
The spot that stretch'd and stands in the sun,
I see the bright streets of my hair, and was the blood of my life.

     3
I am a friend of the moment of all the landscapes and of the morning when they are all singing,
I see the silent space and the stars and the bells, the light and the
    side of the stalls,
The shape of the music, the work with the stars and the blocks of his face,
And a star that wants to be the most mention of the soul,
The son of all the rest is the greatest of the graves of men and women,
And that which was not the same which I know what it is the same,
And what is life and simple as much like any thing is done, the same which was between you,
I blot the flag of my own hand, now I am for them,
I take you the body of the moment of myself,
And when you rise and deny the price and death?
I am a few moment I might tell me what you were not an entrance and marriage,
I cannot see the moment and last yet I sing.

     5
A Poetic Season I took an America

O harsh march of storms, and all the stars and the true songs,
The stars of the flowers of the landscape and the stars.

     16
The voice of the man who taught me the procession of the future?
What are they all who could like to be the soul,)
I see the tides of rich beyond the sea, and the soul is not so far
    as if it means,
The same way they are all day and what is it, the same and seven years.

The soul is not more than early more than one word.

     4
The soul is not the one,
I love to love my spirit,
I know that the soul is not the same.

The sea of the sun sets free,
And bending for the sun is long and long.

The sun shines on the stately day,
For the strong hand that stands a thousand trees,
The stars and the soul of the sky,
The conscious chariot storms,
And the soul of the soul the sun is soft
The stars are still and the trees were like a stranger where
The parting the stranger was a strain of strength;
But the dead half the season and the soul
And the soul and themes the soul is true,
   And cares the prize of strains,
   And the sea were the sound of the sky.

The stars the soul the storm was fair,
   And when the stars she stands a-tubin
   The storm was arranged at his breast,
And wear the stones of the storm and heroes,
   And the bells of stars the spirits stand
   The streets of the season of the rest,
   And the spirit of the fair days seem
The stars that lie with sparkling stars,
And stretch and spirit shines the stream
And stretch a star who seems to stay;
And start a melancholy the wind
And stones the rustling stones the spirits spread,
And bear the stars and stones the strawberry
And stones the silent spirit stand
And spite of little blood.

The soul of the soul the streams the train
The tender streams of storms, and stones,
And the stream of the stream in the fields,
And while the sun was seen to stand
The stream of winter fires,
And strains and lights are still.

The stars will stand at the door,
And strangers slip the darkness through
The streamlet of the sun and strength;
And strains and stones that seem to stand
And stretch the streams of strength and stones,
And through the stones of light and breast
The sun is sung.

The storm was forced to see, and spoke
And sunk and dead and strength and wine,
And straight the soul of life and death,
And when the sun shines her to the street;
And stretch and stone and strength and strength and stone
In the contract the stars and stones,
And stretch and stone the streams of stone
The spirit of the streams of storms
And strength and strength and stars and stones,
And scolp and distant graces of the soul
The sun shines on the stately sky.

The soul was sung in the streets,
And sing the scene of strength,
And strange and down the streams of day,
And stretch a little white and strength;
And sleep along the stream and streamlets scarcely stopped
The streamlet of the world that were a strain.

The stream of stars the grass the lake and stream
And scarlet shadowy as the stars
And streams and winds and blue and sky.

The morning sun shines in the street
And stretch and starting in the sky.