Bitter are the joys that cure,
the feet crippling under burden whole.
It fills to brim and corrodes,
the vessel of stone that homeward lay.
Drowsy the tree-tops high,
yet the river flows down and deeper thin.
A mourning of a hundred beings,
climbing high on rocky pavement.
Yellow the flowers I dream,
a sorrow that ceases the unending spray.
Coffee trims on hillside bare,
a crow laying eggs of blue.
Blue, the sky now thrills & groans,
the impending dark that waits in awe.
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