The poet, bent over the paper, ink-brush in hand,
carefully defining poetry for his pupils
did not see the first stork of the Spring
in the limitless blue sky,
Your poem is old wine,
that only a few know the true taste.
It give a new painting to artists,
a new song to singers,
and a deep meaning to wise ears.
Be well with all my best wishes!
I like your poem. It carries a beautiful thought............cheers.
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10/25/2021 3:02:43 PM # 188.8.131.528