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| Forgotten City |
Where are the new
names, the fireflies? Where are the surface seekers, the improbable souls? Mourn
for your leaves, your ashes, and your patient absurdities. There was a boy who
planted books by the river where the raspberries floated adrift. The day is in
the oven. Trouble me gently, let’s go visit the dead. Silence is all but
sadness and there is no vengeance. For whom? I’ll miss you all when I wake up.
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