A three-day-long rain from the east–
an terminable talking, talking
of no consequence–patter, patter, patter.
Hand in hand little winds
blow the thin streams aslant.
Warm. Distance cut off. Seclusion.
A few passers-by, drawn in upon themselves,
hurry from one place to another.
Winds of the white poppy! there is no escape!–
An interminable talking, talking,
talking . . .it has happened before.
Backward, backward, backward.
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