I know what you came here for,
to rip off my esteem
in the forests of inferior vigour
and then there's me,
walking with a lamp of longings.
A lamp which burns,
lights my home of despair,
of no stones,
but only the buried beams.
Neither did you knock the doors,
nor you moved the curtains aside.
I could see the blithe sphere,
in the broken glass of my windows.
Smashed by you,
in the urge of ardour.
I could see your reflection
in the ice cubes of liquor,
smiling with a dead silence,
which no one dares to wither.
I will forever remain a fervour of morals
with no more voids,
for the grief that's eternal in me.
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