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Tuesday, April 3, 2012

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Poem: Speech

Her words
Are like spring again,
Not wounded hopes
Or a creed for darkness.
Her singing,
Are borrowed love poems,
Fragments from the fire.
Burnt offerings.
The shape of the journey
Is a gradual twilight.
The tempest of the stars.
Infinite days.
You consider the radiance,
The color of dust,
Drifting the ice
For harmonic balance.
She is the talking tree.
You are the one
Who enters the stories.

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