Everything is perfect
For spring, not summer
All grey, no sky
Roads are wet from clouds
Drizzles, rain's stopped
Fresh is air
Breeze is bump
Nothing looks like it must
There's no sun
No bird's chick
There's no fruit on branch
There's no cart
No harvest pulled by mule
Or an ox
Trees green
They have leaves
They're welcome
As women without child
No fruits, if any
Is no good, for you, I
And the land
In its best
May give us little soil
Few bushes
And may be
Just may be
A few flowers
It's ghost town of London
That too, is beauty
It is here
It is with us
Open eyes.
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