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West Hills

by Nin

Too dark the roads of West Hills
How can the weaver find
She needs to search the thread beyond
So soon the moon would lounge
And leave her dreaming none.

Too quick the finder knocks on door
Her work has just begun
The truth beneath the creeping sun
If they could understand
Can dream like stream withstand?

Too new the heart that silence talks
Has disowned paradise
A privilege that heaven keeps
When door is left ajar
Seduces her so far.

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