The days are getting shorter, and the poems, too.
A Legacy
Our words are weak as porcelain;
they linger lightly on our breath
and last no longer than the wind
that parts our lips upon our death.
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De Mé
- Cartesian Quies
- Poesis archaica non cum ruboré.
Volve Cubi
Pittacii
- Nonces (147)
- Sonnets (34)
- Vers Libres (5)
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