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photo by M. Weber


I, in my sorrow, bewail the fate
Of ripening fruits that fall to earth;

Yet one moves as spilled ink to a blotter,
Helpless, impaired because restrained.

What weakening game would look back
At its own revealing spoor and say Alas?

Need one for the present blame the past?
So in my agony, I take time to chant

My elegy, a mockery of hope,
Of men cringing behind their shadows...

— Seb Koh