I Write
I write –
on autumn leaves,
when the sun is
alive
The grass
is still
fragrant.
And you are a dream which
I won’t
tell about.
My eyes are collecting colorful rains.
As in the mad years,
when
I ran with a cloth
to bandage the light.
The wings have left
and the golden sparkles which
you are writing with today,
without even knowing…
A shed
feather of Fudjiama.
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