I Write this in Three Minutes while my Friend does the Laundry (Won’t you Play your Flute?)

Cold heart you meander
Between winter and wind,
Tossed amongst galleries,
Hostels and din.

White leopards prowl
And vanish from you;
Devil likenesses linger,
Shadows grow and block bright views.

What lack of madness you are,
Straight as an arrow,
Dead as hung meat.

No mountain nor valley
You cross, you neither sing,
Nor do you weep.

You are granted sweet and bitter passions,
Yet never seize the fruit;
Wood pressed to your lips,
I pity, you, stiff and frozen,
Never once do you play your flute.

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