Clock
In the warm air of the ceiling the footlights of dreams are
illuminated.
The white walls
have curved. The burdened chest breathes confused words. In the mirror, the
wind from the south spins,
carrying
leaves and feathers. The window is blocked. The heart is
almost extinguished among the
already cold ashes of the moon — the hands
are without shelter — as all the trees lying
down. In the wind from the desert the needles bend and my hour is past.
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