miércoles, 29 de octubre de 2008


I’m sitting in the chair and writing in agony

White lines and black lines and many shades of grey lies

The art of my forgotten memory is made of lonely instincts

The dreaming eyes are broken shadow firelights

The truth to be no longer silence

No longer blind to seize my senses

Nothing in the barrier bush. Nothing in the wheel that soon reminds me

Somewhere in the sea the late is lifting sorrows; lonely widows

No longer warmth to hold you, mirrors bleak furies in the meadow

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