Resting its light limbs
On the crimson decanter
Drained of all mirligoes,
With a straight pose
Mirrored into the ribs.
The pink definition of a slow death
Into the glory of the ashes,
The cageless throb
Of a senile youngster
And the fearless pace
Of a broken wing.
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Mysterious and mystifying and yet somehow familiar ; like the set on a movie where the actors have already appeared.
Mr. Kasatkin, as usual, you are generous to the point of making me feel forever in your debt. Thank you once again.