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■ The oak
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I still spread illusions
on the spiral of hours in a wandering thursday bearing an uncertain name turned towards yesterday pilgrim in myself climbing smiles and hanging on words Still scrutinizing the sky and the earth searching for a stranger finding only words ripped from us put to sleep between a paper cloud and a whistle of wind You’ve prived them of life the very day I stripped myself of all the thoughts caught in the vertigo of shivers in the verge of disintegration bowing their heads to the pagan God of your memmories I lost the sky don’t feel the earth time is the only presence around me a lunatic that wanders on streets evoking demons A sunny thursday the time which forgot to rhyme only one of us breathing in his belly, one and solitary, and the uncanny laughter of the april epilogue In this spring which digests the truth the air lost its sunny scent and willowy perfume gone is the aroma of amnesia petals, the breeze of verses broken from a chain of fairy-tales Intuitive thoughts regarding your reflection in myself increase the tide in my verbal sea I drown in a uniform silence which fades in itself, fades in you never in us, redundantly in me
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