poetic art. Maria Elena Walsh
Extremely rare, desperate
complicity of the papers.
say orange is very nice, but the ink
it hurts.
fate much we need.
I do not know how people dare.
I forget to live but I learned how to die:
stabbing a pen into a love of outdoors, or slipping down memory
,
unmitigated, infinitely.
And I wonder why. No appearance
answer.
Ultimately I would
out to foam with laurels and change
posterity by a speck, on a comb.
ago
time I have wanted to tell many people:
callus certainly know that I die
and obedient,
and I have no idea
and I despair for ever.
much more comfortable would imagine among fish, like the dew
conceal any crime transparent
work with flawless stones or phone, or wait.
long I can last in a job so urgent,
so fragile, no escape, digging
what happens in submerged areas where all
is to repent, but can not.
The truth is that I witness
solemn holiday,
that I have a collection of musical interests, rivers and apples
that I am authorized by
and blue color.
think that we will never know what happens inside
nuts.
not ask me.
madly with your permission I will
dying a little bit
with words. Until you take me.
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