The fat sun
has gone away
and the fire
has become
a flickering thin flame
The moon shaves itself
And perfumes its dark side
Under the sugar stars
Beyond the laughter of God
A silver pinhead
a tiny dot
is what begins
to show between
bright cotton clouds
Young winter dances
While early autumn
fucks the days away
and life goes on
and so do we
and on and on and on…
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Journal of a happy monk.
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