Exhausted
Of trying to delay
That my river flows
In route
To your source.
Being on my own
In this autumnal night
Of November,
I wonder
To myself
If I will be able to
With these
Stones of mill that hang on
My neck,
This nitrous
Ballast,
This oppressive delirious,
If I will be able
To build in the bottom
Of my death sea
A new Atlantis
An old Jerusalem
A future Shangri-la.
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