Outside, screaming silently turning
night yawns and covers the entire sky,
hurry, unscented roses
or bodies who loved pink.
These bodies exist in the minds
one night lover without love,
born in the summer nights
and never rub their hands ...
And at the end of that night of procrastination
perhaps we die
because nobody loves us ...
perhaps we die is what we
knowing that at any time
be time to love ...
© MarisaLy
Saturday, February 16, 2008
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