The pigeon has been killed, it has no file, it has no file on the soil and blood, it has no file, it has no file, it is an
old book that has not been read, it is getting makeup from loneliness, it is no longer staying in this city, it is getting makeup from loneliness, it is no longer staying in this city, when will it be that you and I will be and be freed? When will you and I become us and be freed? When the
ship has no more words, it
does not see old and tired feet through a dark and black window , if there is only one flower in the garden, the flower of that garden that has no picking , every tree that grows old one day does not burn it from the roots , when will it be that you and I will become and be free? When will you and I become us and be freed? When will the season of dying reach for me? When I fly from this shelf to the door, what do you want me to take here,
although drunk from the smell of angel is not like an atlas example , my words are not like someones words, my poetry is a beautiful word, the word is a word to the world, it is a world, when will it be that you and I will become us and be freed? When will you and I become us and be freed?
