Burn it in the cold
28 July 2015
The night died today
Wasted in rise of morning
As the raven sighs
Grass scorched in the sun
Breathes off night’s delicate touch
As it lights and churns
The nightingales weep
For pallor of their slight wings
Shine not through morrows
Take this wheezing chest
And while it shivers and throbs
Burn it in the cold
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Gray clouds trail across the sky. In the pale winter sun a flock of geese (Ben Grafström--Akita, Japan)
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