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Emil Cioran
I've been fed a prune of life,
Spooned it silver, everlasting.
I spat it out to seek a knife,
To chop and cease it of forecasting.
The birth is reason as much itself:
Not 'yond the self conceived.
Wrote for book on busy shelf,
Whose tales unread aren't grieved.
Copyright ©
Beej Simrov
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