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Ink
The black dropped quietly
on white,
The paper chain of chastity
broken,
The smooth,
The pure.
The paradox of good and evil,
The hellish,
Pandora's box
Is open.
She must lift the earth
With fingers of rust and dirt,
Drop it, and crack it like a bleeding egg.
The black blood,
India ink,
Upon the smooth soft surface of the life paper.
Black-yellow spirits emerging
From the egg box,
Pandora's box.
The egg gave birth to evil.
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