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■ The oak
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2019-04-25 | | If I could dye my hair right here, at the roots of my soul with this soft green, which is leaking, at Easter Vigil from the burgeoned wooden crosses, from the grass tresses which are growing on the top of the tombs, defying this toiled earth, my darlings, my sweethearts, my beloved ones I would let my fringe grow long, so that my deforested look will never miss the spring in which we'll rise together, in green garment so that my eyes, depleted of tears, may receive the blessing of the eyelashes loaded with dew drops so that my nostrils, depleted of scent, may remember the perfume of humility left by the snowdrops, in their bow so that the unextinguishable embers of my longing, impermissibly smoking where the righteous rest, may honour His death, trampling down death.
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