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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2005-05-28 | | Submited by Edilberto González Trejos
I walk on meadows run to weed,
on fields of burdock and mallow. I know this rank and ancient ground - this is the Magyar fallow. I bow down to the sacred soil; this virgin ground is gnawed I fear. You skyward groping seedy weeds, are there no flowers here? While I look at the slumbering earth, the twisting vines encircle me, and scent of long dead flowers steep my senses amorously. Silence. I am dragged down and roofed and lulled in burdock and in mallow. A mocking wind goes whisking by above the mighty fallow.
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