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In Este

by Brutus Paulinus

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In Este the vineyards weeped under the expanding
fog. Her empty eyes stared at me and 
in their reverberating darkness I was trapped as
her spirit formed aged velvet crystals in my glass.
 
Violins scented of spring and a tiny droplet from her
barefooted dance inundated the morning breeze.
My foot stamped the gravel as a thinly crusted air 
forced its way into my...

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Monday 20th February 2012 11:04 pm

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