Of one memory, one
for the end of the dark does not lie,
I will not lie in it; darkness perfused
I shut the window; here he bleeds,
here he lies, though nothing is there.
In furrows, mercy, it is laughable.
The Earth succinct in waves
in a lonely larva
the dead poet’s dreams.
Stand under my umbrella,
we embrace in impassioned poverty
of loneliness,
an interaction of alacrity
and of bloodshed in the oceans
in the paeans
of sorrel idles
in a cluster of spring rain,
a sea becomes;
felled in trees
where you are shorn
off a lonely leaf.
Innocently, it becomes
entombed in the empty hands
and precipice by the fantasy
of the sea; it bleeds,
with not an end in sight,
it bleeds in maddening suffering;
a planet stirs
in figures of shadows
in the dark recess of my memory,
a trance.
So glad to find this website.
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