To crown your navel is
To be crowned of laurels
And olive trees on my mouth.
For that reason
The prognostic
Is the following one:
In the night
Of the words
It will glow
My tongue
Inflamed
For your kisses
First-born
And only-begotten,
Given in Eucharist
In an forgotten
Era,
And with the sinusoidal
Wave
Of the removed
Phonemes
Of my voice
It will be recreated
New
Milky ways,
New rivers,
Silvered pathways
And boreal auroras.
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