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Jun 2020
He is waiting for someone else
to put the words into his mouth
instead, he would say out loud his own.
And as pretending the singing,
he merges into unpossessed voices
hiding his song in the noise.
I cannot make out his words, though:
I misread his lips - mistaking a pop song for a pray;
a lip-synced psalm,
and believe every word he shares.
Diána Bósa
Written by
Diána Bósa  Budapest
(Budapest)   
  288
   --- and Savio Fonseca
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