It will be

It will be a hundred years ago,
tomorrow when the tree
that grows out of my window
finally bursts
into its bloom.

So many a winter have passed,
it makes me weary to think
of all that comes to the mind
when I look at the smooth bark.

Let me drown the lilies
and set the plumes of gold
to dry upon this forgetful wind,
they are on fire.

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