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When you go to the doorWrite a name on the sill
See a face on the wind outside
Think of the sender who was
Tipping the ink to spill,
When gravity plays tricks and laughs
Running chills through dancing leaves
Speaking in some other language
You know what you hear is not now
Yet it is, yet again here once more
When you go to the door..
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 622 times
Written on 2013-11-27 at 10:18
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