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■ Pașadine în vers alb (73)
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2009-02-16 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] |
[Sourav]
Only in me did this man’s soul in a rotative windmill likeness sleep. Into my gale’s leeway side he stood aeolian - deflectionless grip. I even eviscerated his senses driven mad by this roundabout drift - he weatherproofed as pipe organ only to murmur back into me a thousandfold breathing of my own uncartographed yet self-trespass shrift. Wherever I turned to off me he refused to flee. The ultimate contraction was to have expelled him outwards along with his obscure whisper of amniotic words. * Madam, this won’t be a new-born soul. It’s you that verso excrescence. Let yourself inscribe.
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