"It's Saturday or only one sheet of paper
gushing tears of cedar and sad petals of my unconsciousness ... "
It's Saturday or just a muffled cry of loneliness, boredom and indifference ...
The poor people go in search of bread, food for meat which's
rotting every day!
Meanwhile, the sick poets are in their cloud ranches with dead songs,
pies letters and a deep look at what comes and goes and actually
never existed ...
(Joyce Martins)
