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There are two young men
The subject matter is the same
It is poetry
It clings to the bone and the skin
That poem
It comes with a curtain
Poetry in a dream
When I woke up the next morning, a poem
Not five hundred and twenty-eight
Not five hundred corners
Poetry is poetry on its own
With an expectation
The distance between a loss is also poetry
After all, everything
Everything about him is poetry.
