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White Aspen
ravenous vultures roam
cheek by jowl
battle lanes prolonged
Wrestle the weasel
in the tall grass
Laura dances
her hips throng
Lost paradise where did it go ?
We are born through golden forests
I will be as silent as a grave
The Son of Pan
appears in heavy guise,
beneath the pond
he hears foremost of our melancholy
at a white aspen we chant
Copyright ©
Antony Glaser
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