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CENTRAL PARK 1

David Napollin

Cold twigs outspread like groping hands
against far-falling gray
and the shaft of Egypt's strength piercing the sky.
The lowering sun
weaves the scebe with haze.

Your hands are cool as petals
your eyes candles of light,
joy of flowers in them
and blue morning.
Your laughter carries
soars away
and your lips yield
warmly press
as the wind faintly breathes.

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