dusk in Paris was in the doorstep.
the foggy, clumsy legs rattled.
to the autumn once forgotten-
arms that all silent night battled
stepped in to the siblant den.
I find the byway dressed in ajar,
paraplegic, I behold my honour of sword.
there I see the dark sun
burn over a smized word.
let me lave myself from the death of gun.
War of the Largest, played by Chile-
psithurism had her own mellow
lies by the hooker of the dark.
her hands were beautiful; red and yellow
on my neck still her mark.
siren rings after a night fall,
the fire in the den muse.
the body of the hooker bright,
fernweh me to the lost and place of no use
bright was the dark of the night.
the war resumed at its usual pace
burning all the puppet face.
there I stood with my sword,
to find the peace of night.

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