Every construction
Made by thoughts
That people use to call poetry
Is, in fact, a cradle
That the grown-up needs to carve
Just to lull himself
Through his rainy days.
Round
And leaving mown hay perfume around,
This warm shape that swings,
The wood of words, I mean,
Far away through ideas,
Needs so much to be heard
So it sounds, ...so strong.
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