(some thought-provoking tanka I stumbled on in the library, while waiting out a rainstorm)
Friends, please don't ask
whatever remains of love.
And don't preach to me.
Let our poetry endure.
It is the cross we bear.
************
Even at nineteen,
I had come to realize
that violets fade,
spring waters soon run dry,
this life too is transient.
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