SEPTEMBER
“An expanse of wild flowers, the prairie where we are witnessing the death of every spirit.
And wind, dating back to distant places, even more far away places.
My moan is soft sound of tightrope without any tears.
The distance of faraway places that I return to the prairie.
One is called Horse head, one is called Ponytail.
My moan is soft sound of tightrope without any tears.
In distant places an expanse of wild flowers, only in death congealed.
Suspended high on the prairie moon, as a mirror illuminates the millennial time.
My moan is soft sound of tightrope without any tears.
Solitary sospingo the horse across the prairie.”
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