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Mar 2021
Cycling, without haste,
Along narrow country roads.
On the edge, undisturbed waste.

Riding, alongside ancient springs
That hatch dry stones and tires.
In his nest of tear strips a blackbird sings.

Eventually, I get to the point of no return.
Where past and future merge.
And no more does the sun burn.
afterthepeak.eu
Written by
sergiodib
  341
   Eshwara Prasad
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