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Indigo roses, idyllic nights and stolen almosts’.
Winds of Hy-brasil fondle softly the body
stretched on the grave of the buried gods of music
and forlorn hands over the field of forget-me-nots,
held lovingly at the chasm’s precipice.
Forget your thorns, mon amour,
and you’ll see why you mustn’t gather dreams—loves—
that have been left to get lost and embedded
in crevasses between thwarted desire and the wistfulness of
a childhood unspoken. Your wandering eyes on the evening star
and your tired hands in my reluctant hold.
And for once the night isn’t marred by children entwining
and entangling her silent melody with their laughter.
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