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stary rynek, the edge of springtime

the sun followed me to where
apollo, with his lyre, stood guard over the old market square.
magnolia stellata, wrapped in white paper,
confetti collecting in the cracks between cobblestones.
stary rynek,
the edge of springtime.

and i watched,
as the morning sky, which had been morphidae
(i mean to say it was black at the edges)
broke into a dawn that spilt ribbons of light like they were blue silk caught in the wind.
and there were pale sunbeams pouring,
over this silver, silent, world.

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