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Setting free
I throw myself together with my verse in the eternity among ghosts of rude horses, the freedom is a symphony with wings, above my head. If you like to look at the sun you’ll the foreheads bearing the remoteness, swallows sit under the eaves of your greed, their wing couldn’t rouse pasts and dead men, only the sky is the mirage of these unlimited worlds, and angels with their interrupted flight throw their hair over the sons’ shoulders wings are bleeding in the chemise of the time
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