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Poem	In the eyes dream. The brow as if it could feel something far off. Around the lips a great freshness-seductive though there is no smile. Under the rows of ornamental braid on the slim Imperial officer's uniform: the saber's basket-hilt. Both hands stay folded upon it going nowhere calm and now almost invisible as if they were the first to grasp the distance and dissolve. And all the rest so curtained with itself so cloudy that I cannot understand this figure as it fades into the background-. Oh quickly disappearing photograph In my more slowly disappearing hand.
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