The moon casts its eye,
In little carts,
A vaudeville into the night.
I wake in morning
River flows down Crestmore,
Wounded by a psalm, expelled alone.
Down the old university, immersed,
By the cathedral with petite
western virgins flowers,
On revered bungalows
With an old torchlight, the ruins of Rome.
I was born off the shoot or seed
It was a spring, wounded by silence.
Cuts the pear into two slices
Before towing down on the shell of seed,
Resigned to silence; midnight, take the meds,
Take some water, and go to bed.
Among the villages,
I pain the world’s river with a white shawl,
Dreamlike rivers. I pardon, and burden,
A ghost in jewels, crystal.
Frightened by the namely wind,
My river resurrects stones.
Worth of a vesper, silent,
In cigarette pearls, ending dreamlike memories,
Worth of sunlight and its dark fire.
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