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Can we stretch song until its songful?
Can our wings carry death to desire?
To a room where sex
insists we see ourselves faithfully?
To a bed where the sheets
are the start of another life?
Is there a butterfly between our legs?
What do we see between sea and sea,
between monument and memory?
What is a wall without a why?
Will we stop ourselves from asking
the only question that could save us?
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