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Since the pen of love was set in motion,
I have been putting words to paper.
As the nights of separation darkened,
so the white pages filled with writing.
Yet even after a hundred thousand pages,
the book of love did not reach its end.
I saw that when compared with the lover’s worth
those pages had no value.
Love made the pen falter and in jealousy
washed away all that had been written.
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