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You, the one who reaps
the crops of cidar and cranberries
and the rain~
Songs, my love
The roots
that we strike.
what kind of trees grow there?
'Are they green, or some white
or there comes a Sun in sight?'
eyes twinkling with stars
and to sing to them
to ask the question to them
Within the canopy of the cidar branches,
where it is dark, and damp
sits a sunbird,
“I lose patience.
Tied to a song
Cannot speak.”
Lower heaven
Higher hell
Intermediate me-
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