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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2008-06-26 | |
He, who hangs on a tree,
the same tree he used to climb when playing with kids, now dangles in front of the spectators Their humble look is wiped by the wind that moves his cold stoned body among the possible edges. Even if he’s dull his shadow seeps through the branches straight to his throat The lost bells in a vacuum of noise mime a song to open the gates to another me, another you All the participants repeat with words like metal their own beliefs; the priest is lost far away from the ceremony where the beasts of the underworld come to take his track further in time. After the last leaf knocks the ground, after the last sun runs in nowhere, there is to be found a whisper The whisper of his sight crushing in the poor gaze lost on the ground of solitude, in the chaos of souls Now, he lingers from above the pit where the souls act a theatre of tragedy His tears drained between cheeks Wind blows against the will upon the layers buried in ash of his past life’s reminiscences
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