When last night
I was struggling to sleep,
his body pumped its last breathes.
As he drown in his own
melancholic waves
of centuries long,
about things unsaid,
and never written on papers,
and never sung in his songs.
Last night in the cold winds
of a winter storm
he shivered,
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withered,
and lazily spread down on
the bathroom's floor,
like spilled wine.
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