And the Soul became frightened
at five on that faded blue afternoon.
The lip between the linens, with a bridegroom’s pout,
implored her for her promise.
Thought, the great General surrounded himself
with a deicidal spear.
The Heart danced; but, later it sobbed:
was the slave bayadera wounded?
Not at all! It was the tigers who run past her
to go place themselves in some corner, and to see sad
sunsets that arrive from Athens.
There won’t be a remedy for this hospital of nerves,
for the great irritated campsite of this evening. And the General inspects sinister sorrows flying over there..........................
in the ravine of my nerves!
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