The time has come
To migrate from this place to another
From the place of existing to the place of being
This lightness of being
To give away the sweetness of the juice of that fruit,
Growing on top of that tree at the corner of that hill
By the river in the field of wheat,
And go backwards to the sound and the noise
To the fury of the city
To the pollution and the collisions of the traffic
And tall dark haired skinny girls
In their fancy boots
To makes a routine out of the unbearable
So that it’s no more…
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