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Revision as of 02:24, 30 January 2014
They begin!
The perfections are sharpened.
The flower spreads its colored petals,
Wide in the sun.
But the tongue of the bee.
Misses them.
They sink back into the loam.
Crying out.
-You may call it a cry.
That creeps over them, a shiver.
As they wilt and disappear...
~William Carlos Williams