There's a faint chime ringing daily more...
a widening gap in the temple door
and its hinges are being removed.
And that annoying garden wall?
In this abashing, spoony rhyme
of impeding walls, the exalting chime,
it seems about to fall...?
I know, I kno-o-o-o-w,
that frail, fine line goes thin,
and as overwrought schemes
trod paths stodgy... ennui... pathos.
Paths of bards whose pencils were made
o' lead and keyboards made o' ivory.
Buddha's last breath? ... reeked o' pork.
And this? ... humble finish.
DG8H
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem