Saturday, February 12, 2011


And the moss on the temple doors show
a silent awakening.
How I felt compassion for his damned son,
caught in the frequency of a transmission receiver.
Along the shores of the Amazon River and
running with him through
fields. There is no
coincidence that grain blows in
the same direction of our dreams.
No, not at all.
Replaced your feathered pillows,
because your body decays
in front of my clouded eyes.Yet,
I look to the sun and realize,
Your eyes are my eyes!
Where are you hiding in the wooden house?I worry for you,
and your thoughts.
But more, I worry for my self-satisfaction.

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