***
Nothing good is ever possible in time
everything is set on quicksand,
I remind myself of the things left
in their place, place so much bethought
by the cynic philosopher who watches me
indifferently from the air in his heart
the flowers became carcasses and the stones
were laughing, nothing remained
non-grimaced; the man made his face ugly
like the stuffed birds and the objects,
the silence, the clairvoyant madness
brought some muse and she was
exposing her pudendum generously,
the things were losing their virginity
in his inquisitive eye between the sincerity
and nothingness the soul remained in a state
of cautious expectation almost asleep.
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