In the spring in the village,
in thegarden, among the trees,
cuckoo singing in one afternoon,
may be two or may be many,
for three four years, in spring.
listening in solitude,
so banal a thing, so commonplace,
neurons retain it,
as moments, songs, and awareness
enamoured by the first taste of adolescent love,
like the coating on a Cadbury chocolate
but
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