It is a hard thing, to see the bleak treetops, powerless
to make them bend.
In this terrain of corpulent empty sensations
there is a dead certainty, a blind spot target
where the bleak treetops call my name
in falsetto clinging screams
and ask what did you do?
There is a very cold wind traveling down my spine
and it is as if it wants to make love to me
a chilly sensuous snake caressing me with icy intent.
You have become my constant companion,
my freezing serpent, but you give no succor
only songs from the bleak treetops,
and endless bitter winding paths
through my wilderness of piercing air, weighted.
I hear again the sirens of the bleak treetops
and walk with steady gait toward them.
What did you do? What did you do?
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