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What was

soon to be ashes

 

What was 

delicate pastel became a trail of smoke

 

What was

saved as a photo,  a frozen moment

 

What was

beautiful, became sparks 

 

What was 

fragrant turned black and cold 

 

What was

youthful protest, ended in weary resignation 

 

We went home,  each alone

without singing

 

 

 

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