101
VIEWS
The night of revolution deepens; Gaspard rises suddenly, a bellflower.
Sukhothai’s mist is deep; flowers of the night field should remain in the field as I go over the wave crests.
In the quiet of a tryst, the frail tones of a theremin are steeped; echoes drift.
At Chūzenji, the monk’s vows stand deep; no birds, the setting sun fades.
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