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by George Freek

(After TU FU)

Fall is as cold as the moon.
Huge clouds tell me
snow is coming.
It will be no surprise.
It will wear no disguise.
Monks, seeking comfort,
mutter incantations in
their selfless occupations.
They ignore the signs
in the sky. I watch
the moon slowly die.
Where does heaven lie?
I think that my life
is an accident,
for which I must apologize.


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