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May 2020
Exile was a haunting in the earliest mud,
A bellow of night jasmine on a wreckage

Of returns. We came from the kiln cool
To the touch. Now our faults blight our faces,

Like summers, like salt-hay. I will not tell you
Which ways your many voices moved me.

I will not tell you the summits I scaled
Now that I speak your tongue.
Triggersappie
Written by
Triggersappie  35/F
(35/F)   
87
   Stardust to Unicorn, --- and ---
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