The Situation of the Poet
I write poems and we write together.
We always do it. There is wheat in them,
Also the sun, and the dripping moon.
We do not want the house but our inner peace;
Not praise but the smiling face of every child.
In the days when the orchid falls and opens,
Lonely and happy to talk with the world.
4 o'clock p.m, April 11, 2017
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