Let us be quiet for a second, listen to the gods sleeping.

They sleep through the daylight madness and the hidden obligations.
Gods yawns are loud enough to open canyons and generate stars.
Their dreams are made of sticky pollen, bees embroidering eternal paths.
There, the bedtime tales are made out of ancient ropes and each knot has its own story.
There, blood is the most precious gift, and it’s used to write ancient stories.

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