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they're eating figs in roma
a sign of change
drops of crimson wine pool at their feet
willows painting their little heads—
they bend and whirl with the naked skies
in which the fig leaves fly by—
birling and wailing they scream their song
ripping their roots out of the moss—
they send rocks into the ligurian
their final moments, how icarian!
they’re eating figs in roma;
the end is near.
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