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About This Poem
A Holy Hope
Bags Of Rice
In my Courtyard
The One I Struggled Lost to the capriciousness
The nest of the fuddle Nightingale-
A Suspicious Saying of the sage.
So sonorous is this Whistle
That passes by
IF not covetousness
It will be inclined.
Memory of the past
Archimedes, Aristotle and many
Memory drained superlative subservient.
A Holy race
So secured everywhere.
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