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The river was still waiting
as the wind entered the eighth sky.
The tree too forgot the last bird
that sat on its autumn branch.
There prevailed an eternal stillness.
It is then the drizzle started
its music.
By the time it became a heavy rain,
the era’s last song was sung.
You and I are now destined to be
eternally still,
or virtually relate to each other
hoping the other is real
as well a mirage.
Let the continuum continue to get lost
in the extremity.

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