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Flawless
like the hasty wind it ran Medea’s whipped song... Almost invisible, irresolute, our fate line spread over the bloodstone hour of poppies. Sometimes we suddenly wake at night and ask ourselves: “What about these anchorless words wading between shallow waters?” There’s no war, my love, no guerilla behind the solitude, just this life’s estuary sieging the halcyon, as the white irbis it’s warm-blooded, fearful pray.
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