What could be written today?
But what’s on the page?
About the pulses?
Winds tonight are motionless
Burial of the torn was done
Is it because of the cold?
Rain of the that night
When the war torch came
Back to home with the fall
Of the empire and bricks?
Runaway fragrance in the light darkness
Lulls smoothly to rest
From the long illusionary treatment
You’re free to sleep in the ocean avenue;
Shoreline art.
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