In solitude
		Many miles from the next housing
		In the gleams of a beech wood fire,
		A plain, sharp mind absorbs His lines,
		Pursuing eyes of a spy mutilate the picture
		To issue, 'His quiet voice has never risen.'

		In desolation
		Secluded from recuperating sections
		In a muffled ward for the dying,
		A person's breath is softening, fainting,
		Toxic drugs freeze the face in agony
		To proof, 'His peace does not exist.'        





	    black palm leaves



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