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No. 953
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A sight of blue fire, with weasel's red locks,
like pure air, refuels me: a burn on my lungs.
In summer's stupor, I found myself clung
to memories blurring (a tic from the clock)...
A loud voice kept mocking
my ways of grown old:
the drinking, the smoking
—the child sure was bold.
Her lecturing flooding
while standing alone,
I just listened muting
for she won't be gone...
If days are all empty, they better be done.
Let's meet only sunsets, my blue eyed red sun.
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