A flock of silver eyes
falls
like autumn leaves
from the eucalyptus tree.
Almost hitting the dirt,
they rise at the last moment
to perch in the orange bush.
Enclosed in cloisters,
they start to chatter like vervet monkeys,
or like priests around the refectory table,
when the vow of silence has passed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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