2011-39
The Eagle of theSouthern Triangle burns
bright, no cooling
rains to quench his
glowing feathers.
Only the crickets
are singing tonight,
while the moon's
silver fingers continue
to pluck, listless, at
the withered stalks
in the fields.
Poetry by Minhocao
Read 568 times
Written on 2011-08-02 at 14:53
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