The eyes poured out on the whispering waters
And from the perfect thought, of clay roads,
An ultimate endemic pleasure
Molded into fog and thunderstorm.
The Nothing is the story of little ones,
All of us...
Of fallen clouds into the shape of storm.
The pleasure of the morning in which we ran barefoot
Through the pound of tears
And my path of clay;
Remembering the sweet kiss of good night...

Year: 
2017
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