Monday, 5 October 2015


The wet nose of a hog
Clearly proclaims the coming of fall.
It’s cold and a promise I shall make
Starting from tomorrow, a song I will sing to lucerne.
Full of blue flowers, it doesn’t know
That us, the others, in turn and senselessly bear fruit.  
We dream, and we do not give guerdon
And we bathe only on Monday.

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