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‘This woman does not exist’
- it said – ‘Her no-name is written all over my feathers On the smallest of my scales On the length of my hairs - Plus, she’s mocking the weather No eye of the storm When she sits at the back of her bed Counting the beads, counting the days and your sibylline smiles She will never appear from under your sheets Or behind your curtains - Not a tragic figure of vernacular poems Well, she may rest among your table objects when it’s night and it’s over If I may say so, she’s not much of a talker Yet quietly slips her arm in the doorways But nah, there is no chance that you may ever meet her, No matter how often she scribbles her prayers On alleys, on cobbles, on church doors or her shoelaces’ - The never-seen mythical creature presumptuously said or maybe lied And poised its head on its tether
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