Lost at times as sordid mud pulp
contrite appearance on the edge of innocence
brilliant clarity of intent silent beauty
waiting biting diligent ancient desires extinguished
lens as yellowish leaves floating in nothingness
while the hours of break continuous silent lives of crowds off
For years in the house there was everything: students, artists, tramps, whores
drunks who smaltivano until dawn insomnia dense sour
bitter perhaps macabre of a tortured madness invisible
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