Mar 2020
Our fruit trees have grown to a corpse.
Their ghosts
Have corresponding depressions,
Beneath my sleeping head
They lay.
Aimless and dreaming,
I will be a meadow,
Which whispers your name.
Their ghosts
Have corresponding depressions,
Beneath my sleeping head
They lay.
Aimless and dreaming,
I will be a meadow,
Which whispers your name.
(18/M)
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