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I saw it in a secondhand shop;
I looked through the window
and, in the midst of all the rest,
there it stood,
willing me to buy it.
And I did.
It hangs on my wall,
a young Indian girl,
braided hair with beads and feathers,
pensive look upon her face.
Nicolette visited,
espying the portrait
she recognised herself.
The resemblance is uncanny,
eventually the picture will be hers:
for now, it hangs on my wall,
watching,
like a sentinel.
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