The world embraces him like a gift--
"Set him free," said the old stump,
Blurting out some precious oaths
The yellow-grayish wall is like a chopping board,
bringing the moist atmosphere from west
Is it all a dreamland?
We whisper intimately and
Our hands blend in silence.
We love his filthy hands,
his posture,
his forgiveness
These days, what do we call Love?
What do we call Ignorance?
How do we touch things?
What do we hold?
The moon, the full moon, the water?
No one knows our existence
Our hope is a storm that ceases in the sky
We refuse to know his real name;
We make predictions, take guesses
And feel sharp pains
In the end.
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