the crudities of young men
he saw his throbbing
sorrow was not the word
joy was not the feeling
though the world was reeling
ripe oranges
reach over
into the dark recesses
of thepomegranate trees
in my
but their spirits come down
only as far as the rain
picture our thoughts
completely woken up
as if regaining the original
ground we call magic but
don’t believe in anymore
except as flesh and blood
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