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dry cans in cellars full of sweet fruit,
covered in dust are beatiful in a way.
all with labels peeling, the iconic cambells
soup cans in tarnished red and white
set like rusty bells on a church steeple.
not like the empty mason jars on the front porch
half filled with rain half with childhood memories
of grasshopper guest and fire fly delights.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem