There in the rage

I could see the brown leaves of gamba grass
Fluttering all through in the wadding breeze
And the burnt shoots
Crunching my nostrils to disillusion
The underlying carpet
Sooty to tread on
And the far distance
Lying by the strength of the eyes

In some parts
My blood can sense their virginity:
Visiting bees and birds
Floundering the shrubs’ maturity
The whole air filled with nectarines
Like of an untouched doe

There is the perplexed passion
To the return
See the nanny birds traversing inheritance to their young
And their sounds meandering all through
See
The return of the winter

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