21.06.2026 To my wheat *** Mowing hay side by side with the farmers, In the solstice breeze, goldest day, quite mead, Musing back to Tolstoy’s country hamlet, Where seas consisted…
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*** I blur the forest’s contours, The trees lose their shape, The trunks turn to Stravinsky’s “Le Sacre du Printemps”. Snapped heads and twisted forearms Oaks, hornbeam, beech and spruce…
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