The morning wakes itself up to a sound
An echo that resonates with a memoire
Wide, and endless fields
On which they died and reborn
Like flowers
The color is golden when it is first captured
Through hours and hours of residues
Of the night, of everyone’s dreams
Slowly peeling off and scattering
Into the sun
--
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※ 編輯: sylviaplath (114.136.253.3), 06/27/2018 15:32:03