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Grace
Poems
Apr 1
the climber
hands curl so tightly,
I can see the strain in your back as you pull yourself up
to the next hold.
silence falls across the hollow space
as we watch you in awe.
your hands rain white dust on our faces.
you turn sideways, press against the wall, dyno up and across,
and then you reach the top.
Written by
Grace
F/Voie Des Papillons
(F/Voie Des Papillons)
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Pradip Chattopadhyay
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