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Eugene Leake (1911-2005)

A hawk hovers in air,

two white gulls float on the stream

soaring with the wind, it is easy

to drop and seize.

Birds who foolishly drift with the current

where the dew sparkles in the grass,

the spider’s web waits for its prey,

the processes of nature resemble the business of men.

I stand alone with ten thousand sorrows.

 

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