There are things that fly
up to heaven laying
mysterious metamorphosis
between hands bold and cupide
on vast gardens fences
by invisible silences.
I run my hand
on the front of one evening
like so many others and
inflames the heart with joy
crackling of youth gone wild.
Then an entire night locked
between mortal things!
Belfast'll be singing today
and its avenues lenses like the old
shorter shadow cast shadows.
Now all is peace and silence
between prayers of mice
I read where the appeals of many lips
who feel an embrace
most indecent of death
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