The words that come to us   
 nous font être.   

 They are there,   
 in mouth,   
 ink clad,   
 and plowed closely.   

 However,    
 like the bee      
 this desire to be,   
 in the direction of the wind,   
 closer to the nectar,   
 forces us   
 à pousser la charrue,   
 inexorably,   
 jusqu'au bout du champ,   
 just the words that happened.   


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