By the dappled bank,
Crouched over the black canal ~
A roof formed, a path.

The weeping willows,
They know only how to take ~
Are never giving.

Those beneath in groups,
as often not; each their own ~
Best be passerby.

A root, part submerged.
There lies a bee, in stillness ~
No longer working.

I gravitate there –
Looking for something, once lost ~
They can’t give it back.

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