Aparajito

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and the blue is ocean.
and the blushing lotus blooms?
It’s evening.
It’s the Earth.
All kinds of things.

Dear Mother,
one thing or another.
O Lord of the world,
You’re burning up.
ornamented

There’s a door open.
with the crescent moon
and I long to see you.
Where do thrush
to her hiding place

Give me your word.
that fills your soul
Sparklers, silver stars,
on Krishna’s breast.
Two rooms facing south

There are snakes out here.
for the sweets.
and camphor,
She weeps with her head
and windows closed

the greenest land of all.
and adorned with serpents,
These are biographies
where on tender grass
the clear tones

“Lay flowers at my feet
he’d fallen down unconscious.
My boy…
Invite him in.
Where grain sways

The mother died,
you’ve lost your appetite.
books like these,
those devoted to you
do they speak a tongue

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The Commissar

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a knife in my heart.
A pail of black blood,
fairy tales.
Your waist.
It weighs no less

You remember, my dear love
pacing like a beast in a cage.
sick with every disease possible.
because you’re the mother.
Was the prettiest ever cloud.

a newborn screams his lungs out
for a woman’s skirt!
all in blood.
When a new
I swear to God, I knew

the horses will knock you down.
and it just breaks your heart
We got a baby boy.
My little treasure.
He’s wasting me,

On the third day…
Lullaby…
that’s what she’s sucked out of me.
An iron.
has lost her mind.

for a woman, hips are everything.
people swallow gunpowder for it,
Our river dried in the wood
I’m very sorry.
…God created.

Scarlet fever, and diphtheria,
the harmony of working people
looking for something,
I’ve drunk so much iodine
even stones cry.

That gentile woman has gone
Where’s a bush, there’s a leaf
The End
We were so happy
It seems it stopped.

and for the sake of our bright future,
dresses are made,
thought of this to our misfortune?
O Lord, do not hide Your face
Hold the baby.

Yes, we’ve got our pretty face
this angel.
All our life
Oh, my best calico skirt
Sailing over our heads

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We All Loved Each Other So Much

we-all-loved-each-other-so-much

Well, it’s… it’s the apex of sexual pleasure.
the greatest encounter of my life.
saints.
the memories of those days will always keep

Husband, father, lover.
hiding.
The rich man is lonelier, because he is more
the zeroes.

I got dizzy and fainted right
conscience.
thoughts.
Widower.

elusive happiness,
in his millionaire’s swimming pool.
memories for the future,
to whom intimate things were added to reach

They say that the world is small. But is it small,
Namely, the false defenders of grace, of poetry,
In the end when the father steals the bicycle,
one.

the boy cries and cries.
his conscience
beautiful poem.
Cinema as a School.

twenty-five years.
illuminating her solitude without any veil
I want to see your eyes.
Stagnant water into which you sink little by

The street artist doing Madonnas.
cinematic criticism…
Ambiguous, but open…
He’s sorry. She’s sorry.

And then this is only a temporary thing and I
It’s your fault. You wanted…
horizons…
arrived.

Misery reunites us with fraternal tentacles.
With all your regrets…
ribbon on the highest point of the gate.
of beauty,

exhibitionism.
of the feminine soul,
period exploded into being.
Peace and good will.

Listen, listen.
trying to protect her baby.
chased by a line of soldiers.
elusive happiness,

Years of prosperity and tranquility followed for
years and, in my desperate search for you,
life with someone
divides us,

…that I’m not supposed to hear, a secret
which induces women to visualize other people
with projections and debates.
We are all alone now. And we’ll always be

I feel like lifeless matter speaks to me, but I
I’m against friendship.
was true love.
symbolic

Nice stuff that you are teaching to your son.
lost every time.
There he is.
passing.

reasons.
illusion
petrified everything
The nuns…

Well, usually when they call the Red Cross
It can mean nothing,
father, the husband of yours truly.
broke up.

There are lots of poor people, all friends,
I need to find a way of speaking to the dead,
St. Francis.
thought.

Private atmosphere.
Give me your hand.
the most memorable one.
Fallen sorry.

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