| The Horizons, under my balcony, are
|
| bearing the superior lights of the city,
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| where nobody sleeps.
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| This place, where metals and bones,
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| concrete and blood were mixed
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| to erect a sanctuary for all
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| bad and good, this planet remembered.
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| On purpose all born naturally
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| are equipped with both rectipetality
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| and self-hatred.
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| In this compact universe several
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| techniques are extraordinarily important
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| for those who want to live and to die.
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| Settled Red, Green, Blue
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| are the colours of breathe mechanics.
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| And every breath is a prayer
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| And every breath is vital
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| Morose asphalt, made of souls of those,
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| who coddled the Earth till the comet’s arrival
|
| is a firm jacket for the lawbook.
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| And every law is a legacy
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| and every law is deadly.
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| My eyes are becoming upturned binoculars
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| And Now things around are frustrated.
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| Naked houses, drunken street lamps,
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| pained prophets are going mad,
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| beating down the sun,
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| waiting for it’s reverse.
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| And against a background of all these
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| we are the lost scenery
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| set up for making cheap resurrections
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| every time our minds and hearts awake.
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| Oblivion is the word, the horizons under
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| my balcony whisper…
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| wobbling, the moon rises at the top of the hill.
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| This world is over.
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| This world begins. |