I roam ancient songs

From clarity I sink into a thousand year old wound      I roam

ancient songs worn out by the day's garb you talk only

of the mountain peak      I cannot speak of the old song from

such heights      the silkworm as my ink I weave bare threads

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To the tribute belongs rain      to the horror of

summer, my dying song      to the brazen hill belongs

silence, whetted and pure      with an agile distance

as comfort -