He returns in the season of cherries his eyes, two virgin forests his face, a map of a mythical world and his words, fresh cultured pearls in the shell of his language. He returns like before, like always with the return of the remorseful moon, the departure of bewildered swallows, the color ‘rose’ to cherry blossoms, and green leaves to the orphan branches. He returns and roams in my presence like a wandering vagabond.
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