You who hear
You who see
You turn around
In the light
Poignant opening
Out of time doors
Otherwise perhaps.

Launched on the frail Esquif
Excluding the throbbing terrifying
Beautiful
Called until forgetting
It would have had to be turned into summer song
If not to be
Bee rays.

Signed and resigned fittings
In a low voice
Redo the path traveled
Between the cry of birds
The cries of pain
And pleasure
Who are so much alike.

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