There are those who grow gardens in their heads paths lead from their hair to sunny and white cities it`s easy for them to write they close their eyes immediately schools of images stream down their foreheads my imagination is a piece of board my sole instrument is a wooden stick I strike the board it answer me yes—yes no—no for others the green bell of a tree the blue bell of water I have a knocker from unprotected gardens I thump on the board and it prompts me with the moralists dry poem yes—yes no—noSourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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