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September 12th, 2019
"When my ancient-Chinese brothers
made their poems people knew
what spring meant; they knew
the verdant and salubrious grace
of summer, the autumnal melancholy
of the cricket and the
chrysanthemum. But now every day
for everyone is just the same,
a time to get and spend. No one cares about
or even notices the clouds . . ."
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