Light, inattentive boules
My thoughts of sorrow
As in the sleep of the winds
Algae, slow hairs
From the dead body of the waters
Float like leaves dead
Surface from the still waters
They are things wearing nothings
Dust swirling around the doors
Of abandoned houses
Sleep of being, without medicine
Trace of what wasn't
Slight sorrow, brief boredom
I don't know if it stops, if it flows
I don't know if it exists or if it hurts

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