In the memories of Fir Trees

In the memories of Fir Trees
And that rain-wash climbing road,
From where have vanished
Your varsity and foolish family life.
Still we listen that crowing of the pigeons
Throughout the loneliness of our beloved dead City.
Still drag us to that vibrant Veranda
Always intervenes by the firing of Stan-guns,
And wounded many a kind of Guernicas
Or else sprawl out as a junk of Dead Sea Scrolls.
Or even resembles the scattering colors of a thousand of Sonatas
Or like the sacred garden of the Sonalu Flowers
Longing for the illicit Poppies that will surely arise,
But yet through the sudden simmering whim
The poem appears as like as Water Hyacinths.

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