In the three dead eyes to pass on the windows
Walk the path of the three-phase line of grief
I raise myself how old frame
Guess it takes to resurface cornice shadowy face
Alphabet lifts up so much each morning
Old habits are birds
How I draw the dream noon, nothing can match the...
Sense pained dead eyes mere cultivates sad dreams
In grief sunset spreads unabated breath.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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