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The Waterwheel

     Evening fell
sad and dusty.

     The water was singing
its rustic verse
in the pockets
of the weary water wheel.

     The mule was dreaming
— poor old mule! —
to the rhythm of shadows
drowsing in the water.

     Evening fell
sad and dusty.

     I don’t know which poet,
noble and divine,
joined the sorrow
of the eternal wheel

     to the sweet music
of the sleepy water
and covered your eyes
— poor old mule!

     It must have been a poet,
noble and divine,
a heart matured
by nighttime and knowledge.

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