quinta-feira, 6 de agosto de 2009

Lisbon between its walls,
make of Holand a pretty country
the voice goes off
echoes in the silent pleasure
from the silence of a wrong letter
lost letter in the abyss
two foreign languages
a thousand perfurms and sounds
discovering lost languages
beyond the sea
behind the poetry
the touch
(take it easy)
as the blurred syllables
dust of the mirror
and the point is not
signs of avoidance
smiles of attack
and the writing
as commas
are only
period not marked

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