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Anthology

On edge of precipice, if have to,
I go down without flicker or tremor,
It is a burp that comes up
Natural – and I am ready to die.

The poem is born, recognized
First for the idea turning into line,
A phrase: like foetus it grows
By itself, and I am witness, watching.

I can kill it if don’t tend it
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7/26/2021 12:57:55 PM # 1.0.0.664