terça-feira, 8 de novembro de 2016


The smoke from our cigarettes
clouds our eyesight;
two people become three
who cannot be one.

Narrow halls, double doors
old walls
seem to be the whole world - revolution
in a glass of wine;
who there is to blame?

My skin shows you who I am
so you can find out who you are...
Do not try to tell me what to do.

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