Black and white

Whether to write my black into white
Or white into a black I will now decide.
So I go out for a brief while and touch
Darkness and smell it from the street
Then a little rose of some falling petals
Tugs at my flowing shirt about its smell.

The sounds are here from the trees
And the rising temple loud speakers
 Returning from a white wall of trees.

That is better with a white in black,
Not having caught a single keyword
From light words sleeping in wastes
Of  fiber glass wires and glass tubes.
My  light is now white on black night.

I can hear the crows from  dead trees
Now cawing their mornings  to orange
Slowly spreading behind the buildings.
Their black will  remain etched in greys
Till they  disappear again in the night.

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