"I’m glad you come back.” My poems said.
From number 1 to number 400, all are alive.
But some I could hardly recognize.
“Who are you?” I asked.
Some too young, some too old,
“Each of you is not me, but somebody else.”
I said. And they started making noise.
“No!” One of them shouted out loud.
“You are not you. For you have lived and died
For 400 times”
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