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The words are intertwined
in their arrested flights
on lime windowsills,
white cottony leaves
that, that suicidal impulse, they retain.
Shreds of the Dream, scales
to sow bundles of feathers
that, so dense, are footprints
my breath containing,
bandages wrapping my Soul.
Earth trodden, nest of kites
who do not lack food,
on the lime parapet, flowers
of my orchard and pool,
to fly alone in the spring.
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