Blinded by the scintillating sun
I closed my eyes
and the warm round world
swirled around me.

There was no night or morning
yet that is all there was;
the seasons passing swift
in constant blur.

A russet deer, a fox, a bear;
the leaves are changing
into words, not  fragmented phrases
but soliloquies.

The purple grapes
are ready to make wine.
They spill their claret blood
like pens on a mission.

That pause for breath
when sunset fills the sky,
That is the closest
man will ever come to truth.

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