,~.
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I stopped texting........I refuse to cry
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In a country my heart is buried....... Whose noise is this under my ribs?
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In the village, fog hangs over its mud houses...the light is silent
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In my old notebooks...a field, despair, and a scarecrow, above which is a chorus of birds, and beneath it, a lark's nest.
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Between two situations, her eyes provoke me
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In the hope of meeting the departed, it is good to wait
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The missing things become more apparent
But we are discreet about talking about it
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