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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