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Wind was my roommate in the halls of the bewildered winter --
Whistling of missing ceilings but still closing doors,
Of the perused in autumn but unspoken words;
Lingering in unwritten poems and through limpid limits;
Twisting the images of you in frozen poses; whisking
Whispers of portents from the withered shells of lost
Things; and bewitching me of, melted long ago,
Pollen of snow throughout the, open in the summer, windows;
Pondering over the events that do not have a meaning;
Whimpering of the crossroads that I cannot cross,
Over my words of you in sleep I cannot know;
Wielding your portrait on my wistful linen of the winter.
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