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'there was nothing for it but to leave'
- she wrote in her little notebook
while she was counting the street lights
spread in the distance on the street.
'this isn't a poem. no... nothing else but to leave'.
she took her bag and smiled softly in the warm night:
'I've written too many poems
and I'm getting a little tired' - she sighed.
oh, how late it was to escape...
V.
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