babalaas:“ What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of manYou cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And
babalaas:“ What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of manYou cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And
babalaas:“ What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of manYou cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And
babalaas:“ What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of manYou cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And
babalaas:“ What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of manYou cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And
babalaas:“ What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of manYou cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And
babalaas:“ What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of manYou cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And
babalaas:“ What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of manYou cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And
babalaas:“ What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of manYou cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And
babalaas:“ What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of manYou cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And
