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Rating: 4.3

In the glare of scorching sun were caravans
Of spring, beds and beds of roses, in the buds,
Dreams upon dreams in my eyes, in your eyes,
All of it withered away, in the dust of scorching sun.
And the words on my tongue, stillborn,
And the words and dreams in your eyes, dead;
No one ever got a glimpse of them.
Never heard of them.
All those colors which brighten the twig that was my soul,
Colors were you,

Colors were me.
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