Song for Steadfastness

Every Monday the sweet
bean curd vendor comes down the street.
No one would want to rise again
if not for his visit.

How long will he keep us
faithful to the days?
The city rains down coins
of bitter dust.

We cover our bowls
with our hands,
coming and going
from dawn to dusk.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Raw.

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