You got your flowers to strew
On a sunset, in the dying lake.

You got the flowers and leaves
To hurl as an enormous waste.

The crane with enormous arm
Stands by it , to hurl our gods.

Crane is not bird , lake fishing
Nor meditating god on a foot.

Crane rises up lazily at sunset
To bring down men and gods.

You got your flowers to strew,
And crane to hurl yearly gods.

Lake dances with dead flowers.
We have mountain in the lake.

We have  god’s pretty flowers
Floating on lake’s broken sun.

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