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a man  


he brings heap of wrath with his heart             

his pockets cannot carry the clout from the metals he digs

below the bleating soil that suffer scarifications each dawn

he buries his bruises and beard there

every day ─

and comes home to his children and wife timid and exhausted

does not tamper with dreams anymore

god knows he knew what he knew about the world

the muted screams from battered lovers; taste of their blood


he travels to the four-hundred-year old missing dialect

inside the belly of nothingness and rock a chair where the rain ends


he continues to buckle his suit higher and tighter

as long as it bears a price tag that shelters his brains

sometimes he dies like everything, like courage or heartbeats

and at the end of each day all he wants is a state funeral

a word from the strange priest who looks like an important man

and when there is nothing left in him

the sun leaves him to the bottom of the soil he has been digging

and the grinding begins to nibble at him until there is nothing but the soil

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