If William Blake could
take a moment between the
image of voices in his head,
From waking dreams
walking out from wooden
press, where ink stains
make their bed,
We could hear what clings
to the space made
by Mr Fredrick’s hand.
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If William Blake could
take a moment between the
image of voices in his head,
From waking dreams
walking out from wooden
press, where ink stains
make their bed,
We could hear what clings
to the space made
by Mr Fredrick’s hand.