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“someone was singing and he was alone. for us, you wrote yourself in small letters so we wouldn’t know. from the bitterness of blood, from the nights of the eagles, that music began, but we couldn’t hear it. the grapes are calling their wine, the stranger. (...)” — Monica Laura Rapeanu
someone was singing
and he was alone.
for us, you wrote yourself
in small letters
so we wouldn’t know.
from the bitterness of blood,
from the nights of the eagles,
that music began,
but we couldn’t hear it.
the grapes are calling
their wine,
the stranger. (...)