A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


Which I remembering do,
upon seeing mixwards
among the grasses,
circular standing of mushrooms,
perhaps toadstools,
greyish brown, splashes of red,
not human blood let,
sat around and jumped over,
a flutter of lace winged
fairies, singing,
dancing, playing
in the general
tea time,
till suddenness of blue frog
leap centrally,
all take fright,
make flight, away
to invisible sphere,
shame of that,
though frog a
beautiful thing,
doesn't fly.

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