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A Spirited Dust

Was it a calculated
risk, when it was poetry,

falling like rains
on the parched lips

of yellowing pages.
Like the stones of a

grey mountain,
singing a hymn to blasts,

pick pocketing the sun?
I start reading the anatomy

of violence, ever, never
easy to understand.

Lots of red blotches
were spread on the tiny figures.
written by

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