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This part
of the longing light -
that throws a shadow on the empty borders
and white continues to hang in sight

that stands still in the windows and chases round
through a creaking house
that has activated its spotlights and
searches for centimetres through the fields

that allows itself to be borne like a dead one
on the beacons of the chilly wind
and all those mornings is received
by the winter quiet

- this light
gnaws in the morning on my clear love
who softly wedged in sheets
propels his breath
...
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