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From the pink of the last rays by Ann Wood

From the pink of the last rays
he clings to his scarf and goes to the chimney.
His heart looks like a notebook,
in which he writes poems in the winter.
Cleansing the Evening of Fatigue,
and burns festive windows on the walls.
The streets smell of coziness
and thundering the doors.
And then it melts with Sunset,
on his way to his fictional star.
And only his scarf remains to remind,
that he was a wizard in town.

Poetry by Ann Wood