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Out of the sea

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Coming through, may be inside myself, Way. Waves, time, moving what? Whipping the willows. (Your skin covered with snows, petals or words) something is falling slowly not yet born I cannot read or burn (ashes on your language of salt and silence) the names of lost islands
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felipe, Da Islanera. “Out of the sea.” Atelier, Poezie.ro, https://poezie.ro/atelier/felipe-da-islanera/jurnal/171557/out-of-the-sea

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