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No more grief on my sons I consume,
But my tears fall gently like April rain.
When by night travels I glance them,
Being worn their white garments.
Worm is Time, sucker of my imagination marrow,
A horrible beauty hatches from my dimmed decay.
Endless insomnia is the fruit of my loss,
My flesh in flames is no longer a feeling.
Dead Language I am;
My bones are empty pens.
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Writer Profile
Bilal Hamamra
E-mail: belal_ham@yahoo.com
Facebook account:
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=797592940
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