
This flat I occupy hasn’t been this warm for weeks And as the colour returns to everywhere, apart from these pallid cheeks And as the cat go round my ankles, its tail, once more, is curled It’s big news in a little world And when the single hair, it germinates From the very hand of nose I, the stricken carrier Or the only one who knows The direction of that crooked branch Always points and grows Us to the graveyard
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