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Poem

Rating: 2.0
In the early evening, a now, as man is bending
over his writing table.
Slowly he lifts his head; a woman
appears, carrying roses.
Her face floats to the surface of the mirror,
marked with the green spokes of rose stems.

It is a form
of suffering: then always the transparent page
raised to the window until its veins emerge
as words finally filled with ink.
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COMMENTS
P A Noushad 16 October 2020
An outstanding poem which inspires thousands all over the world.
0 0 Reply
Colleen Courtney 14 May 2014
An enjoyable read.........
1 0 Reply

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