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The Picture

She descended from the picture

to sit down on her empty chair.

Her yellow tongue kept silence.

She was in the middle of nowhere.

Her cubic dreams dissolved

in the reality of her

fashionable loneliness - a mask.

In the still air, a bird like

a huge cross made of icy love

brought transparency.

She took her personal diary

and started to jot down

phrases about

some lost pieces

of life. The old words

that had been deposited there

looked like those dried leaves

belonging to an

unfashionable herbarium.

Her diary was not green at all

while keeping safe

her unique love,

longing for a little life -

two elementary cells

subsiding into a

biochemical contemplation,

seeds growing

in the humungous womb

of the earth to become

future flowers.

On the retina of her eyes,

lost, fossilized worlds

have been still existent.

She looked into the mirror

to see the unseen.

She understood her death.

She would leave that space to go

somewhere where

she could hope against hope

to find a little happiness.

She would go, but she did not.

She disappeared into the picture.

Poem by Marieta Maglas

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