THE CREASE
Even when life had not brought
Even the slightest wrinkle, I imagined
That beat any lock step
Do not leave any living beast.
But when the truth comes and reigns,
Charting your hands volcanoes and storms
Luck follows that time slave
Hatches summarizing the hard hold.
And this sphere the whole getting lost,
Only left in me some patch
What was and did not know anything,
Of all imagined, or remnants,
Only underfoot the cliffs
And said getting lost in agony...
MARCOS LOURES
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