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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2009-08-21 | [Aestu textŭ lipseashti s-hibâ dghivâsitŭ tu english] | Ânyrâpsitŭ tu bibliotecâ di Ada Ionescu
A butterfly's wing
moving gracefully in a still Asian dawn works up a storm that beats the hell out of us in Pennsylvania. I used to think it was a woman somewhere on he other side of the world, turning, maybe, in her sleep, or tossing the hair from her face with a soft flip, that has wakened me on this lonely dark night, not a sound, not a glint of light out the window, and no air at all on this night when I need air, even if only what comes of a butterfly passing, or a woman turning, or tossing her hair.
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