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There was a time you wrote verses with me.
Then you ditched poetry for some staid prose, stale.
You shall expect me when you shall marry her.
You shall want me when you will want to sing her the stars
while combing the night through her hair.
You shall need me when she shall try to give you a daughter.
I promise you, You shall then cry for me to wash off the curse,
each time, last time.
And you shall ask for me with closed eyes, for a rinse.
This, I bestow upon you.

P.S. ~ The Verse. The Curse? The Words. Blessed Words of The Night.

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