Late poems

There it is my own mountain
With a mouth open at its top

A hole in a childhood village
Where monks lived for peace

In a hole, now in bigger hole
The late poems breath life in.

The good old poet sets about
Re-ordering pines and avoids

The clutter of the top clouds
And be free of the early rain

Drowning a pine’s loneliness
At top, late poems are about.

Mountain on finger saves us
From stone rain of angry god

As we are down in its under,
All our late poems are about.


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