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In the seven colors that make light
The sun’s fiery chariot swiftly moves
Towards the equinox, our own thing
In backyard, a cross-square of twigs
That turns a chariot on a bean leaf .
Our rice and milk ,stewed in smoke
Tastes exquisite, like his warm gold
Of morning rays on weathered bodies.
We love our sun but cannot see him
With our naked eyes ,except in smoke
Or as he is fully eaten up by our earth.