Turning Hegel On His Head

And so, the spot on her mind, These bits of dust are grey. By night, rivalry exiled. And the moon embedded slowly, Swirls of swans lay waste. As does the halo around her hair. The pot and the kettle are black, And turned Hegel on his head. And so, the spot on her mind, These bits of dust are grey. By night, rivalry exiled. And the moon embedded slowly, Swirls of swans lay waste. As does the halo around her hair. The pot and the kettle are black, And turned Hegel on his head. And so the spot on her mind, Fed the rumours of the ruination. Cull, the spider is culling. And breached both sun and moon. There's still-life in danger, Devoted to repetition. The pot and the kettle are black, And turned Hegel on his head. The pot and the kettle are black, And turned Hegel on his head. The pot and the kettle are black, And turned Hegel on his head.