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I'm at a far far land.
This land, almost at the end of the world.
There is a green green garden,
full of plum trees.
Yellow, green, red, purple, small, large, round, long...
They make plum jam with them.
That's it.
And they eat.
When the winter comes,
they add water to some of it.
It becomes a soupy sweet,
to eat with pastries and pastalike dishes.
And when they pick more when they need,
they exchange them with wheat,
or whatever they need at home.
No money is used in that.
Just the plums and the wheat.
2 comments:
This is a beautiful poem about plums-reading down in your blog I notice the village of Kars. Am reading the boook Snow right now, about a poet returning to Kars. Seems fitting and makes me want to visit Turkey. Is this where you are writing from?
I'm coming to your blog through the ASFS list serve-so a nice little find.
Hi Romney,
No I don't live in Kars and no, Kars is not a village. It's a city. I was there on a project for a week but this was my second time there, it has magic if you ask me. I mean the city.
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