Monday, September 21, 2009


Nothing roots here; all is a glimpse
this serene April lasts so long
and still nothing grows but the heat
We must be living in a monolith

Take us over the obstinate river; we'll close
our eyes and make them look like coins.
We have brought monks in our intentions
to cast off their pride

Nothing grows here; even the houses
seem no longer houses. The passing
of time carries an ill-born child
And the glimpse is like a monolith

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