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How will one's feet dance to the rhythms if the gongs have ceased to pump the veins?
Are the hues of the palette enough for a leonardeschi art to transcend?
When your mezzo-soprano fails to hit, will your story still get heard?
Will a cyclist still pedal to savor the orange horizons without his friends?
Who will listen when the wrinkled fingers lay on the dusty piano?
Do these words still tell of a poet who once penned in flames?
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