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The Poet

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Her bed was leaning against the wall, along the small corridor adjacent to two bedrooms in the wooden house. It was her space in the house, a corner where she slept alone. She turned her face towards the wall and closed her eyes.

The white butterfly flew to where she was,
Circling her in naughty little flights,
Of all the beauty of the gardens, it whispered,
I find in you, a keen observer.
Then it flew away to a rose nearby,
And feasted on nectar,
As sweet as the sweetest delight,
Ever.
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