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Cold

Cold is your heart Whose strings I cannot strum. Cold is the past Whose hours I cannot relive. Cold is the season Of remembrances fleeting And gaping wide in white furrows Where bears sleep Before spring.        

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Posted in Invisible stories, Iron Tales, My poems, Wordsmith

“Language is not like the sun,
heating and scorching
but like the moon
keeping secrets
and the arcane magic of the night
throwing stars
in the lilacs’ claws
till dawn.” -Iulia Halatz

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