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Tiny bittersweet hours

(I) Fallen\Sunset   A tender gust slide on our faces in this kind of Fall We try to stay while he whispers – old stories glide through the air – down the hill, rustle of leaves, and something yellow still remains.  (4th December, 2017) (II) Hymn to the Swift   To pure hearts who lie down on purple fields of conscious memory To the brave Seagull who was able to challenge the deepest oblivion – and the untamable waves –…

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