My head is no longer adorned with a wreath woven from the sun's golden leaves
.
From every tree and every bush
creeps men in black cloaks.
Small shadows arise in abundance
br/>immediately the dull wall of the sky.
Who put the down feathers
in my clover hay?
Who swept the gold dust
from the reddening cloud bank,
swept the patterns on the grass
from light green fabric. In the dark, you
shining in the window pane.
Go home! Because there are things that a wise man does not touch.

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