The Lost Soul

Mornings there are continuous evenings, coal-burning dusks of half-lit lampposts, and the trees have all changed into what they once were thousands or hundreds of years ago. In a lost city of copper sulfate, a dream reader with his lexicon considers the most distant constellations, which flicker from far off somnium. The lost soul dreams of eating traditional candy, of watching marbled mountains through nude branches, of chestnut cakes, of gray-eyed goddesses and gray iron bridges. And his verses, none of them original, possess the logic and light of the winter sky.

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