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SCHWABSKY/ BIO




The Sore-Throated Singer to Her Lovers


Drawn out from transparent conversation
and but poorly armed with tears

a sound that’s the opposite of thunder
fine dust falls on the beauty of outside

a cloudy lake gathers time in its lap
mist is but faint praise for a forest

your soul pressed between two futures

listen won’t work, later be no singing
breeze lets saplings brush the sky

like the echo of your footsteps
this silence lurks behind your back

a series of mumbled propositions
the clock strikes midnight once an hour

© COLUMBA  |  ​​​​​​ISSN ​2564-1271

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