i strech my hands
in to the depths of a mirror
i know i know the tale,
in which, i and i became a tale
you strummed out, me,
from where i drowned as a tale,
a long stemmed tale
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It weeps for distant
things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white
camellias.
Weeps arrow without
target
evening without morning
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords .
Lorca-Guitar-
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