I believed:
a tree when kissed
would not lose its leaves --
leaves fall
from kissed
trees.
A river hugged
by a hand in love
would not flow away --
it flows away
into fog.
There are in my landscape
errors of colours and scents
yet always
always I love
what incessantly
changes.
As a golden ball
she runs before me:
approached again and again,
my beloved,
Earth.
-Tymoteusz Karpowicz
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