Carapace
I pollute the grounds of innocence
with smoke
My cigarette spills into this field
and burns everything
But I am a wise bandit
Before I am a blind fool
No matter
Wandering through noisy streets
and silent rooms
I live without speaking my grace
Take with you, traveler
The freedom to choose
Loneliness without the sorrow
Desire without the dexterous want
Passion without the flame
These fields, they house many feet.
Mice, young soldiers, they are lost to me,
And again those damn eyes which I will never speak to;
Faces of innocence turning day by day to stone
With or without consolation
Here rings true the old saying
To all young men contending with fear;
"Bards are born at night,
kings at sea,
and courage in cremation pyres.”
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