TASTE
From false astrology beliefs, somewhat in nature, gloomy and inconclusive customs borne in on us, and always close at hand, I have cherished an impulse, a taste of my own loneliness.
From flimsy table-talks absorbed like used woods, with humble chairs, and a language, that, like slaves, only serve secondary wills, like a milky consistency of deadly weeks, like smog on a city from stagnating air. Who can boast a more tangible patience?
Prudence and good judgment engulf me like being dressed with a compact skin with a color that gathers itself to itself like a
.
All my creatures are born in a massive rejection; one drink of alcohol - alas! - and I wave off the day that I chose for myself, like all of the days of my earthly world.
I live in the fullness of matter; this substance is mute as a matriarch, I bear my fixed patient like a church and its shadow, or the quietness of bones
.
I go full of those waters that are in deep disposition, prepared and expectant, asleep in a tearful vigil.
The inner guitar, the image of my soul, keeps the catch of a ballad, spare a sonorous, abiding, immobile, like a punctual nourishment, like smoke in the air : an element of force in repose, the volatile power in the oil : an incorruptible bird that keeps vigilant watch on my head: an unvarying routine of an angel inhabits my sword.
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