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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2008-02-27 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] |
Poetry is the punch in the keys and
must be felt by the hearth and slashed by the brain Is the leaf that falls from the tree but never reaches the ground Poetry means war in a smear drawn by peace and part from that tiny piece of dust, lost in the desert of words You don't need to break your hands to feel those words and you don't need to scream to taste them Poetry is part of the echoes of inner lost, of founding new, though old, repeating ideas Must come and fade away as the wind flows, as the seconds transform themselves into gnomes... Beyond, there's a kind of sweet perfect disorder - is like the dance that you'd never want to stop Poetry is the drug that makes us dependent and which flows through the veins ... filled with smoke!
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