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Tell me, have you ever loved?
Tell me, did the dawn float in your house?
And the doves circled overhead
Their whitest minuet in the world?
Tell me, have you ever cried
Bitterly from bitter happiness in the morning?
And gave your soul on napkins
To editors, zealots of the pen?
And if you are even a little familiar
With the ripples of my stray hand's mistakes,
Then, it means, it is to you, and not to another,
I wrote all my poems.
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