time
flying hours
discrete time
never words can
be words
no original words
no words
silent words
alive times
silence
full of substance
on the proper emotion of lines
written
at the taste of the wind
between
soft pauses
of who doesn't know
another tomorrow
at the taste of the wind
there's only one
leaf
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Is it what you write or how I read it that imprisons it in my head, always ?
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