Artchil Daug

Early Morn - Poem by Artchil Daug

Those archers
see not their target
for need not their eyes

in the glare
that the morning sun
heaves upon
the bleeding roses.

The shadows of the moon
retreating in the forests
with voices dwindling,
echoes that move the leaves.

O, mysterious arrows
seek thy shelter
with no mind,
love is blind!

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, August 21, 2012

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