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A bed too small to hold two lives, and yet
The one did not betray
The other did not flee
A common secret holds three
Across a forest, a sullen path
To rescue a cracked mold,
Muddled the letters on the palimpsest:
“What was built shall not pass.”
A scorched land, a sky of lead
A twisted palm over the days’ sand,
Unforgiving and humble to its last
The wood wherefrom was carved the bed.