Monday, April 5, 2010


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Cyclops 322

In the eyes of the wind are the forests of Europe
How can we celebrate all these sprigs, all this bark?
The last cat of daylight stands asleep
As battleships enter the harbor
Full of dreams,
Bonfires on their decks,
The kingdom of masts has gone down
With all hands
Beneath the quiet darkest waves of
The evicted multitudes.

The tongues of attending generals
Protrude from their skulls their whiskey
Breath setting fire to winter
Will you say what they want to hear?

The fleeting world hangs in the balance.

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