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Poetry Magnum Opus

Opus 27 No. 2


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Trailing leaves

the sunlight dappling through the trees,

that certain moment.

 

Your sun-filtered dress,

the look in your hazel eyes!

 

I can never ever come

to this leafy park again

for fifty or sixty years

without ...

 

Well, I shall die.

It's not such a bad thing.

 

 

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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