We talked about it, I held in my hands
this white piece of a white cup, we were
 outside of ourselves word by word
we were and knew deeply,
 what else is there. There is the night
which comes somehow before
 the white words of the snow,
there is somehow the morning
 which beside my nightness held
the fragile shape of the white,
 and somehow there are these
 words, which we knew
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