Sarette's Reve De Mort: And Other Stories Of Not Quite Magical Realism

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Within the weeds

blowing,

Blowing in the sky

swaying,

The papillon wings

sifting.

The cloudy sky

Crying down in cold tears

Pouring down, spatter.

The way of life rots

away, like bedtime

cots, the rotting bed

withers, the dust rots

also, from no use.

Morning echoes

Calling for the children,

The sun rises bright.

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