Poetry
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Poetry

The breath of spring births blossoms and young love. A thief of frost: she tongues each valley and kisses lips of dandelions.   Watching is the weakened widow who spies upon the mating birds. The blood-red berries, succulent and bare,  are plucked off one by one.   The lovers prance outside her home  lungs bathing in the lilac...

Back to back, wrinkled and withered, we lay in the garden as sleeping thoughts flittered.   Crumpled in grey, bathing in dirt, we will take to the grave all the lessons we learnt.   But for now, who can say? Who could ever forget? Not us, surely, who have mastered intellect.   The mammoth of knowledge, a titanic of...