How lonely are ye
to sit below this simple tree,
And ponder of a world
where passion has toes curled,
And flaming rivers run
Under a bright, golden sun,
A rock sinks in your gut,
Looking out from your solitary rut,
Is the grass greener, lusher,
Elsewhere?
Should I follow a pure white,
Forgotten hare?
His long ears turn
Facing me, through the ferns,
A quizzical expression,
A psychological expedition
To forgotten memories and charms,
The touch of gentle arms,
Who wonders in this lonesome state,
And murmurs of the mysterious gift of fate?
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