The ink from the pens
reflows with antipathy
and is impregnated,
the erasers constantly change.
There is no machine tape
that the use does not crush
the back and forth does not threaten
to ruin the texts
But the writing says nothing
about pauses in the head
Inarticulate voices
grow louder, during them
a hidden storm And the suspensions
are cloudy, chaining the rhythm of the omen within us .
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