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Showing posts from February, 2016

During Day

Was it my thirst
the remaining of winds passed
as breeze,
and spared only a pinch of cold,
my veins since have not

Was it my pride
when the ruins become ancient
so only if spirit could
there would have been murmur.

I let myself wander
adorning innocence
and an ear, that is always a state.

First published on Scriggler.