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Wind
And again it returns
tugging at my eye lids.
It whistles from passing
cars, trunks of trees,
tops of shutters closing
in the night around us.
What am I if even the
ever blowing force of
nature cannot sweep
away yesterday's regrets
or shoo tomorrow's fears
from fertile ground?
Why am I in here -
a thing amongst
things - and not out
there, holding the
wind's tail with one
hand, happy, nothing?
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