You do loves poems and
the strange laughter of children,
underground man
acid in cities disguises his legend,
the establishment of joy
who prophesies the smoke from factories.
One is in the hands of a small country,
horrible dates,
dead and knives demanding bishops
poisonous
young huge standing
no older than hope,
baking rebels more power than a lily,
tailors like life,
pages, girlfriends,
sporadic bread, sick children,
lawyers traitors
grandchildren of the sentence and what they were,
wasted wedding impotent male mother
, pupils, bridges, broken
photographs and programs.
One is going to die,
morning
a year
petals a month without sleeping,
will be dispersed underground
and new men come
calling scenarios.
will ask why we went,
pure flame who preceded them,
who curse at the memory.
Good. That
do:
custodians including the time we play.
ROQUE DALTON
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