But in this book,
the line of one hope,
today, it travels in the word
that comes from someone
who thinks in the heart
when the dark eye of september
blinks as an stone armor.
It happens daily:
In Cumaná it comes at night the lean walking figure of the feeling.
In the moisture of it's eye you sink the sword.
Copious in the loops of pain
around the face of the earth
tanned by the breath of a mean
proverb, it's unleashed
in the malevolent reflex of your future
the meaningless enlightened
hope of the enthusiasm
of the clear stars.
It happens daily:
In Cumaná it comes at night the lean walking figure of the feeling.
In the moisture of it's eye
you sink the sword.
