A Dialogue

There is a garden

that is not here;

it moves away, over the hill,

and the emerald path is beautiful.

O Moon, you are tuneful,

and yet far away.

It is the blight we feel

that shatters our house

(the shadow grows).

You give a tune,

and we long for the song,

but we are not here,

not down at last.

Was not Eve fair?

Did not the seed

fall into the rock?

Let us make a path

where among the bushes

it remains.

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