I brought the sons to the zoo garden.
March was 1993. Some sharp wind.
We saw a black one the raven
...
Many people are waiting
under the trapeze without a wire
to fall an artist
and they don't know
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Last night I dreamed a strange dream:
I'm lying on my deathbed
and they say I have a visit.
Some women, they say, have crossed
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King give gifts
and the poet write words.
I'm writing. Take a look?
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Look at your father's grave.
You loved the father most.
For the day of All Soul's
I'm going to this grave
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In my mind, I write letters,
full of emotions
which every love carries.
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The gangene that emerged
from unthinking thoughts,
as a sprinkled salt on an open wound,
is a black hole without a bottom;
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When you came again
I stopped writing.
The skill and a beauty of the art
that filled me was just look at you.
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It's easy to be a river.
She has her own trough and runs.
It has its own beginning, flow and end.
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Rosebud (For Ozi)
This morning is in my garden
an old and proud rose
...