by Paul Murat
They will be ploughing with our bones,
While the serenade of wounded clouds
Howling in our rusted eyes
They will be gliding
on our bones, while we are dying the stars
No one will come,
to the premiere of our hell
Other than gods of ancient roses and lonely dogs
No one
Will come
Here they are the beautiful tear drops of plain words,
“Once we all lived on the same cross,” says the farmer
And a rice grain
Remembers the colour of the rain
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