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The welcoming clouds receive his stare
Mutilated and incomplete
And the grass now wraps his arms
That it will never wrap anyone again;
His mouth is still crooked
Of incomprehension, of nostalgia, of surrender;
From his hands take flight a dim hope
That in the sunset goes out;
And the gold, the minutes, the trees
They’re like lament upon his forehead
Because he was thrown and was abandoned
And in the great dome pass strange airplanes.
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