A visit to Baoli
Maybe the pigeons know, standing on the doors of their tiny homes, A pair I could see, one massaging the other's neck, Stiff on a weekday morning. Inside, a community adorns the walls; There goes another, carrying a piece to bring home. Would their fathers and their father's father know, Only if I could ask them, If I could make the meaning out from their song, But I sit here in silence, Making peace with my ignorance after all, As the tall buildings grow taller, And these steps taciturn.

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