| Dancing on the surface of my eyes
|
| the acoustics of the sands
|
| The swarming song inside the heat
|
| of the breath of dead sleep
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| That rocks the empty boats
|
| tied up to the barren shores
|
| and pounded by crumbling forts
|
| I’ve found the dead cities of Syria
|
| lost in the sands
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| The grains of ghosts
|
| and traces of (various) apocalypses
|
| and of men never born
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| Smouldered, harassed and bothered
|
| where the stood, angelically,
|
| shoulder to shoulder
|
| In solitary landscapes empty men watches
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| Delicate pigments of gone silhouettes
|
| There was life here
|
| before the sands swept through the waters
|
| and replaced the rapids
|
| and sung and howled in between the houses |