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(a mail to the garbage)

Amaler lies over the oven
and writes his pray to the mail box
(the pies in the sky fly not often
but in the ice-holes of the bogs):

ice is the mirror under heaven
where top and bottom merge into
your eyes: you see a luce you haven’t
seen, in the sun rays sea you do.

even a pie, a bird of rare
grus size, cranes at the glade in ice;
the letter lets Amaler prey on
a blue tit* pike in his deep eyes.

* или elvish/elfish
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