The fire of day rubs its ashes on my face to paint it,
a war paint of cruciform shape to enter with into the night:
who is to know what light truly is, except in the darkness?
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The fire of day rubs its ashes on my face to paint it,
a war paint of cruciform shape to enter with into the night:
who is to know what light truly is, except in the darkness?
No comments yet.
RSS feed for comments on this post.
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