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under a migrant moon
now as a long day is fading a young child again, I am trying to get a shadowy glimpse of a foreign world — uninhabited.
under a migrant moon time runs slower, rocks meditate dreaming in stone —
a suitcase full of books, left a learned life ago, flies by —
thoughts parachute down in circles onto barren land, smoothing its pebbles with their new language.
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