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North, South, East, West. Poems.

Closed Spaces, sens of inability and frustration. Encircle.

Seas and mountains embrace all of us. While parrots are flying. The rest of them is dying. Day by day. White and soft clouds.

Harmonious rose petal lies on the life game table meanwhile the time is running away. White like a dead bride that walk on the earth, while the rest of us, watch, but don’t see. The perfume of the dead.

Deep is a hole that we are going to dig.
North, South, East, West. Poems.

The hearts are bitting, and horses are running on the field made of crystal wet, tears, sweat and blood. It’s heavy and frail the way. Hope there is someone that catches you before you fall. It’s too late. Maybe.

Caress your lantern and express your desire. The time passes, but it doesn’t forget it remember us every day where we are, what we do and what we tread on. They’re watching and speaking to us; they are close to us. White parrots are flying. The rest of them is dying.

The sound of silence is a din deafening like a thousand tacit agreement. Hidden clapping. It has gone, and the world it’s still watching like a circus. We are not the spectator, we are the player, and we are losing the game.


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