The sun-drenched days
sing securely unattached
fiorituras of white and violet,
the timbres for the bees.
The bokeh of the meadow
invites unreservedly
to join its standing overture.
At an orchard's fence
the velvety beeswax scent
paints the swaying grass.
Under the grass curtain
in the warbling of the wildflowers,
words scurry for closure.
"the warbling of the wildflowers" phrase by GPT-2
the meadow of seasons
Toward me the meadow's delicate song
is whispered,
a spidered little dewdrop in the blue.
The vase bursts from the ground
and the bees lift it
for a darting flight.
With the insects,
not fluttering like bats,
they dance on the bulb
of the cherry.
They laugh
in the summer shadow
and in the winter snarl
like a mule in the yard.
The grazing hill
blooms amidst dahlias in a tango of heat.
Yet nestled there among the dahlias,
back on the meadow, amongst the ivy and myrtle
and the pale, sunshine,
the songs come easy, the shade is gracious.
Sail away! bethink you.
The porch of our garden
bristles on the gales
of autumn.
The geranium-bark vine
shepherd to the meadow's center
in its perennial shifting
caterpillar walk.
The golden eagle glides
In slow circle above the neck
Of the reed before us.
Beyond him the future quietness
can still continue to perfect and quiet
in the infinite richness
of the eternally undulating transcend.
---
by GPT-2, https://talktotransformer.com/
No comments:
Post a Comment