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A Silent Adieu to a Country Home
Chill of spring winds snaking through me, “It’s not your place any more.” As I sit on the bench under the Bus stop arch, waiting for a late
Bus to take me over the hills, With three years of my life In hand; and today I see a Young woman moving in that house
Beyond the wide rice field. Now, she Raises her hand to her forehead as if Trying to see somebody more clearly, Waiting, expecting… What, then,
Is the meaning of life on earth Without this comforting ritual--a house Awaiting the return of those who belong to it? Farewell, country home, I will visit you often in dream!
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