the
thieves
the
thieves
the
many
whom
I
have
met
surrounding
until
they
choke
the
thieves
whom
burn
and
turn
and
then
the
thieves
whom
meet
the
thoughtful
blithe
and
a
deafening
silence
that
effortlessly
descended
and
grew
from
the
rocky
mountain
that
overlooked
deaths'
machines
the
thieves
whom
quickly
took
what
they
could
in
hopes
to
defend
themselves
and
the
thieves
whom
quickly
grew
weak
to
an
army
only
ever
described
as
the
question
the
thieves
whom
did
not
know
their
own
answer
the
thieves
whom
did
not
know
how
to
thieve
an
answer
and
the
thieves
whom
sit
so
silently
ready
to
learn
what
they
could
never
know
the
thieves
whom
sit
so
silently
eager
to
open
the
book
written
in
a
language
they
do
not
know
and
well
the language of love is said to not be capable of translation
the thieves, one by one, left behind in the dust