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At night I write

        At night I write from the bed and plunder the fruits of darkness to exchange them for coins made of words. While herding words
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In the Waves

In the waves The sea so green and so open I have my feet in the water I see fishes in the waves the summer the summer arrived
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What it is

What It Is It is nonsense says reason It is what it is says love It is misfortune says calculation It is only pain says fear It is
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The Rose of Writing

The rose of writing to Tulio Mora To court her, to transplant her, poets, to the white sheet, to caress her thorn, till it bleeds aroma and colours
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