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I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees.

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I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
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I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees.
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It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
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While I’m writing, I’m far away; and when I come back, I’ve gone.
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Once more I am the silent one who came out of the distance wrapped in cold rain and bells: I owe to earth’s pure death the will to sprout.
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