Thursday, February 28, 2008


In that strong gale
Am a quivering blade of grass.

When the night breaks in,
In the grass lands I lie
Casting a swooning shadow
On the moonlit meadow.

The early rays escape me
But reach the reaper
Dwelling far from the
Shadow of the hills.

The morning dew
I preserve
Is still afresh
And here comes the sickle.

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