IMAGE IN THE MIRROR

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Damla Malgir

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It's like a pale blanket with purple rings,
As if the death's shadow compiles upon it,
It floats and roams airily in the bathroom.
Hot water couldn't help
nor the waves of blue tap.
Warm streams try to revive it,
Yet its hands are thrown out of a coffin.
Its eyes, the blackness in them absorbs the light.
Everything turns into a void
and they crumble into pieces
during a vain fight.
The image is alive, yet it thinks itself dead.
Dead and pure,
Dead and fresh.
It shrieks a voiceless dread.
All of a sudden,
Dying of the evening is filled with red.

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