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with the nose pressed to the window, she admires the world as a big cake with cultural linger. Her tiny footsteps in the historybook will throw light into coming centuries, and the smell of iris will be the proof of her path. I cry because I can not follow her, the bird which flies away, living in the future. Left I am, for only pressence in pressent I know. I can do nothing but gather roses thrown on the stage when she have left the sceene. |
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