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Eastern River

Written by: Peter Huchel | Biography
 Do not look for the stones
in water above the mud,
the boat is gone.
No longer with nets and baskets the river is dotted.
The sun wick, the marsh marigold flickered out in rain.
Only the willow still bears witness, in its roots the secrets of tramps lie hidden, their paltry treasures, a rusty fishhook, a bottle full of sand, a tine with no bottom, in which to preserve conversations long forgotten.
On the boughs, empty nests of the penduline titmice, shoes light as birds.
No one slips them over children's feet.

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