21 oct. 2010


A clay flower in the grey combustion
A salty note of alternating cloud and sigh
Found voices from its childhood
Repeating themselves in echoes all the time,
Found that the violence in those who are
The opposite of a good person but unsatisfied,
Stinged it. Burned it dry.

Took unmatched elixirs and
Created wet volcanoes inside.
Jumped the fence
Every time it talked,
And laughed about it loudly.
Deaf like lights are blind,
But dubious is the value of its words,
So much darker,
Darker than its words:
A clown, tired of explaining the farce.
Its violence, what they call bitter,
It hid behind the idiot smile,
All covered in dirt, all melted clay.

And that was its future, for a long time.

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