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O Poetry you've come to my grove onto my bed as the beauty of immortal goddess as the Aphrodite from the innocent foam O Poetry no, no, believe me I didn't write you with a stain I don't write you with a sigma you are always alive in the inn of my soul as the holy drunkard lovely pain O Poetry life or death just conundrum math I let both of these not meet you old one I bid adieu to make place for every new - September 05, 2019 Chattogram

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019




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Date: 9/6/2019 4:17:00 AM
If we could run from poetry, would we though? Probably not. "you are always alive in the inn of my soul as the holy drunkard lovely pain" - you have expressed it well.
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Book: Shattered Sighs