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￭ Epistle of a millennial
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2017-08-10 | |
Iím more leafless than a tree,
thereís no bird singing on my branches,
itís just the thin wind with cold wings
passing by the lands of the north.
Layers of haze spread over the forests
stay breathless at the edge of days
in the dry branches, the earth sleeps,
that no trace comes back in sight,
no well bends in
the waterline to put its stars to sleep.
Everythingís strange, my night is from enamel
where water sneaks into land.
The clouds embrace and gather
with lightnings cut through windows.
From what I have left in my thoughts,
thereí no woman, itís just my wolf dog
and the moon horses under the bare trees
along the weeping willows river
without any crossing bridge.
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