my words are old men who hide behind
shades pretending to play dominoes
cards or chess on
benches in parks
while they silently scheme
on swimming the waves of your rambling breasts
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If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind.
1 comment:
tres interessant!
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