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Hiraeth

At the end of the disaster that swept
Our streets with the twilight
And seeped into our hearts 
Like the moonbeams,
What remained was a patch of purple
On my dress.
It was not your purple...
It was of a mindful kid who drew blossoms of lavender on everything
On my copies, my walls
My dress.

Yet why does a purple patch 
Like the twilight
And the disasters 
Remind me of  times 
That never were.

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