Aiko, My Aiko Poem by Bozhidar Pangelov

Aiko, My Aiko



The buffalo is wading deeply
into the mud.
Ripe is the rice.

And white.
There’s almost no wind.
Sun in circles.

Rice is the door,
quietly is rustling at ajaring...

Monday, June 1, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: love and art
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