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Pasternak
I walk over the cold soil to touch
the black tree trapped in its place
Its arms stretch towards
the winter sun's warm face.
My house behind rings its bell,
the sound radiates to every ear
fixing their fleeting moment
of this troubled year.
Sky: let me write my lines
for the act you planned long ago.
Let me sketch a smile
in your script of sorrow.
A black leaf falls and flees,
runs over the field
toyed by a wind
which flows from tomorrow.
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