Garden

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How hard is it to be
in an olive garlanded grove
hinging with dove cots, cooing
under a sensual night’s cover
where all that seemed becomes real
when awaken that is just me
tries in vain to coax back
my thought
driven by its own thirst,
wanders for wonder beyond starry folds
to the thrall
of as if my eyes’ first landscape
where I am and to me!

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