More on: cern

Then the archangel spoke. The Tree of Mercy that exudes
A strenuous air, that bears an ocher stain beneath flanks
Of white leaves, whose blossoms brush the fruits animals
May eat, when the flank of white leaves stirs, it blushes,
What the season of offering does to its scapegoat victims,
After the forces of the design scorched its cast-iron sea,
And despite what remains, the rotten air burns out a shell,
And despite what remains, some try to rebury the dead.
And the archangel spoke.

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