Jonathan, the publishers have not called today, only my mother She says she has a brain tumour, merely benign, a bruise, a shadow, Jonathan, I trust you will keep this to your self for now, I don't want the world thinking she is dying, when she isn't While on the phone to my mother, while thinking of you I noticed that, the perfect silver owl that you bought me has gone missing It saddened me and I couldn't explain it It was the last thing of you in my house, except for your letters Except for the Iris that you planted out by the gate, while singing Persian folk songs Jonathan, I was always your student, with crooked buttons and dirty face Happy to follow you, to smell your scent mixed with aftershave, Listening to you as you spoke of countries that no longer exist, Hearing of your friends, the priest, the latin teacher, the poet and the sailor Feeling you put your arm around me, or smelling your cooking in the evenings Your laugh was lou...
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