I go to console it self with the rocks
in this empire of filisteus
to beg the rejected crying
thorns of the garden
that they fondle the hair mine
to request the cold night
a bouquet of black roses
that it has perfumed and it incenses the soul
of this dense melancholy
moonlight broth with ice
under the music of the agony
my portions of want bad me
as fine it chose
for poisonous serpents
that they struggle yours boxes
one jasmim dyed blood
e new emancipation letters
to return to your
ambiguous god:
“this soul as a fire,
cures that it to create”!
by - DAVI CARTES ALVES
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