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Artist
I stand upon the corner of the page,
A silhouette outside the reach of age.
The walls are painted in the evening sun,
Where terracotta and the roses run.
Above my head, the lanterns softly swing,
Drawn by a pencil and a paper wing.
And on the plaster, written in the grain,
Are words of love, or maybe words of pain.
I cannot read them, they are faded now,
Like blossoms falling from a winter bough.
But I will wait beside the painted stair,
For the one who wrote the secret there.