| One, four,
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| The turning of deterioration,
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| Our fate, monochrome worldliness,
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| The lesser breading is moderate
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| By the craft of human activity…
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| I drank the serosities of your corpse to dregs,
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| time’s alcohol
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| Delapidation where our twenty years glances capsize.
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| From beauty and place only devastation remains.
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| Dying returns your face to me.
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| By now as for a long time
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| I’ve had the face of the dead.
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| I know one day forgetfulness,
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| as memory today,
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| will give birth to the same familiar strangeness
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| in my inner self.
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| This day will pick up the poor liminary song,
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| like the air collect the light;
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| like death collect the glance.
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| like the air collect the light;
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| like death collect the glance.
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| On the pupil of drowned man,
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| the breath of the beloved word will be erased.
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| Then I wil give my self away.
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| The staggering step of the air straightness,
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| Where the heavy flesh breathes.
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| A space where a name is articulated.
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| Your unpronounceable name,
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| Imbodied for it is named again.
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| Unperceivable fall,
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| towards this space opened for silence,
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| wich skims without crossing it,
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| with its thin pulsation,
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| the black frost of the true blood |