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a poem written in the mid seventies
This flower“This flower they say is yours, I don’t want it. It is you I want.”
“Breath” she said, pointing her brittle twigs to my petrified nostrils. “Breath for me, I am the dream of spring”.
“Look” I said, she looked away.
“Look” she said, her face deep in snow. The snow kept falling until morning.
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Läst 166 gånger Publicerad 2015-04-20 21:42 |
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