Monday, March 10, 2003
Too final, the days
It goes through the grass,
what churns in the wind of principle,
with the extremity of form,
one of the summer
This one is fragile
with the heat of a station
the trees are ready
to shed a load,
blocking the days
They are too final, the days,
more briefly,
and the sun grows
until, slow-acting intermediary of the noon, it is tired,
because I and it soon wish for heat
Talent Hizashi Yamasaki
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