January 20, 2011


you cant touch this afternoon
cant touch this oblivion on the swelling river
cant touch the sound of dry sands on bamboo shells
the broken kites by the river shore
the long forgotten tree in the school yard
the breeze is cold now even in afternoon
where from it comes ?
where it goes?
the book pages are old and yellow
the field where the circus sat once
is now hollow

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