V

By the road, down the sunflower field, the pauper croons.            
Spared of unction, he taunts in pangs of laughter               
His forged in misery fate. From the spring where moons              
Embrace in endearing halos, atilt on a moored rafter,                
He fills his gourd with limpid essence, and pities the glooms        
Of the ones who lose their spirits in the mouth of the grafter.

The photo’s source

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