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puerile this need to
try getting into the
smooth core of all things
there where into only the great absent
has inserted an essence
always more immaculate
than a winter morning
on an endless field
I take a closer look
the eye turned, the heart scared
the white sharpness of silence
cannot rip precisely
and all that remains is
an unsettling, but orgiastic
loneliness
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comentariile se pot face numai după ce vă logaţi
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