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By Margarita Serafimova
One morning when I was an object of desire by the gilded sea,
the wind was making exquisite waves,
and a man took a picture so as not to forget.
The sunset was marching.
It was slowly marching, it was high.
I was standing at the place that it would reach.
A palm was standing above that place.
No one of us was rushing.
We knew about the stars.
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