At you again and again caricatures of
the basic movements of death
will not see death
sneak clear footprints
seaside dusk your car
parked in the high cliffs above
you say she died
eighty years old and the age of eighteen your
pick The sound of the piano
and the people fishing at dusk have
long been buried in the ground,
and her face that
has never been youthful. There will be no more people crying.
Maybe there is only one bird left.
You should always know something. It
seems that you have never had a secret.
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