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Tonight
I lift your eyes from the face
and paste it on my window.
Even death cannot claim
the space reversing the age.
A bra bomber blows up herself
in a windowless cell,
to get her a name on the wall of silence,
sort of a miracle.
Roses are in bloom perfume of your life.
Do you take for granted a claim for the sun?
Over to next moon
I will wait for the night,
to start a turf war for the bloodied mouth.
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