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up by the vine, brown, and warm
was a sun, laying on afternoon covered
with clean leaves, in the air I ate
Tamarindo, brown like my skin, sweeter
than biter, and I smiled as I rested
and dreamed of today, back then, love
was a name, not a word, but the chare
of spitting the salt, lay on a hand withheld
by faces long gone, how warm was that sun
As real as the dove, imagined over one, crussing
and zipping it's clouded rout, neighter rain
on the memory of my heart came, by the wall
I held, strud listening, to the drop again the leafs
and all these green shrubs, fell into her eyes
of larger soothness, on a backyard of hopes
I wrote then, first in the earth, with my smaller finger
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