We are not the only ones. This Garden is huge, and there are poets everywhere, under trees, on the grass, in front of benches and lakes on whose banks herons strut, both the famous and the less known, young and old and in between, men and women, Danes, Americans, Germans, Muslims, you name it, over a hundred of us. Staked in the grass before us, two signs announce our names, blue-inked in fat felt pen.
This entry was posted by Ivy
on Tuesday, December 05, 2006 at 3:44 PM.
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