Sunday, November 21, 2010

the sparrow's crown.

Under the heat of exile, sparrows hop
between the fallen branches and long grass

Where are the summer feasts,
music droning lavish to the glimmer of wine?
They are too far to hear
and hold no allure in the field.

If the roses at the gate, still strong at midday,
threaten to wilt,
pay no attention.
The garland that blooms when they will be buried
by the grass and wind
will rise gently in the mist
tomorrow morning;

will not fade as the light rises.
This is the pilgrimage of soil
and it's worth the wait.

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