They sat and combed their beautiful hair,Their long, bright tresses, one by one,As they laughed and talked in the chamber there,After the revel was done.
Luck was a joke. Even good luck was just bad luck with its hair combed.Stephen King
the streams buck like rams in a tent / whips crack and from the hills come the crookedly combed /shadows of the shepherds. /black eggs and fools’ bells fall from the trees. / thunder drums and kettledrums beat upon the ears of the donkeys. / wings brush against flowers. / fountains spring up in the eyes of the wild boar.hans arp
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