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CCCXXXVII

April 13, 2014

The blossoms sing songs from the trees
as I dance with the sun and the breeze—
can I keep up this dance with the spring—
will my voice—will I know what to sing?
All the branches are starting to dress—
in their finery try to express
happiness for the year newly bright,
they reach up to the sun and the light—
can I lift up my arms to the sky—
will my strength—will I actively try?
In the newness and life of the spring,
my exhaustion’s a tired old thing.

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