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Again it can only happen that in spring
I shall meet you as bud, and I don’t yet know
what foam you will be. You will come back
as essence of shell though, laying down
in the womb of a daughter, who already

ciclamini

talks to your heartbeat in silence.
And you, my lost love, already picked flower,
absent hug, who don’t care about arrival
and leave, you’re already throbbing
for your daring wish of bewitching me.

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