The smell of rotten eggs blow under my feet
So you fancy no more my curly boughs
Drop by drop went they into my bosom
My crystal waters now still, broken bottles on its top
Heavy and translucent than before.
My flow my purity:
Mockeries when told remain.
Fishes that I once outdoored
No longer thirst for my waters
My banks are deserted places, only for cold feet.
The egrets fighting on the branches for love
No longer drop their ticks
On the dyed hairdos
Passing underneath
my shade.
Their wings will
flap at night
Across my viewing sky
But who will see?
Only the smell of rotten eggs
Blowing under my desecrated feet.
As one prepares a throw of droppings into my bosom
13. 07. 2013
13. 07. 2013
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