Saturday, April 24, 2010

Sand Socks In Las Vegas

TOWARDS THE END OF THIS WORLD THEN

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File:Leonidas sigloXIX.jpg
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Ardore,
no breeze
not rustle or whisper
what remains of the forest is silent, without
flights of birds, nor insects, nor
presence of almost all human
species.

All
is not by chance: now I feel
Nothingness: a thin red line
flood the mind and to reassemble
Created in vivid reflection
Other ethereal light of the splendor,
worlds.

Last
and end:
grigiobiancastre icy sea waves;
on what's left: faint glow
away, wandering fire-bright
when evening comes,
intense cold night.

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