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■ Escapism
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Neither resplendent nor poor is my love,
As it enters like wind under the waving clothes, at the hour of oblivion. It’s all in all a color that brushes your skin, and the snowy hills are ready to awake the dawn, easily sliding at the hands’ tip. You are calling an old friend, telling him about lost traces of an acacia from the ancient garden. Light goes by as the heartbeats accompany the whisper reigning over some long row of geese. Hold your shadow tight, not to escape! Shout at the eagles’ eggs! Sorrow has No name, but the music is spelling a long forgotten smile. Your half-closed eyes resemble a blushing thorn in an ice-shell.
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