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Rated: E · Poetry · Death · #561665
A Superstition
Messenger


As I happen to glance outside
A crow sit on my windowsill
We watch each other standing still
Please, I beg, don't come inside

I dare not exhale a breath
Nor let a heartbeat be heard
Standing, looking at that bird
I feel a premature end as my fate

Silently I hear his unspoken words
Prepare, says the crow to I
No longer have you any time
So long, I whisper, beautiful world



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