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    'A dead aloe broods in his garden. The weeds will soon pray aloud.
    He doesn’t remember the life as clear as it was years back,
    feeling like a lost cause. He hand picked those marigolds, but
    the ghosts haunt him every now then. He felt a heart withering away,
    back in his shed, like a carcass falling apart in the ground. Emptiness and
    observation could eat alike, from a distance, escaping the barbed wires,
    strolling along heavy fences, he seems to have come a long way.
    He picks up the hoe, a couple of clipping scissors and a smile.
    He breathes the glum moss brushing against his knuckles, swallows the
    troubled voice inside his throat, and picks up the dead roots of his marigold.
    Lurking away in the mists of the broken dream, his hands reach out fora jar of water,
    alas he clenches the marigolds lying by him. Ighrek’s marigolds, he recalls. They
    knew what it was to be in love, fragile like a stone under dripping conscience. Love
    had a lot to spare, but not lives. Once the dead marigolds had helped themselves, he
    lets the weeds outgrow their chances of survival. They will thrive, so will he. He was one
    of them, a claimant of nothingness, yet a handful love never did hurt one.'

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