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My self is a country I will visit sooner or later

But first I would like to speak with the translator


I'm looking at my arm but what I see is a field of rye,

            vast and dry

Everything around begins to magnify


The picture I see is not the same you showed me

I can't be found, but I am here, my feet stuck in this ground


I will look back and see, If there is a horizon in me

Find a line that I can crush, and start to pick at my paintbrush


My veins spiral out with hidden roots, which have planted

                      quiet                       in the night's fruit

I'm close to the sun, it's beginning to set

I am not hot, or cold, I'm waiting for the string quartet


I paint my port in the colors of my thoughts.

They come and go, drawing a few knots.


I look out to see

If there's a horizon in me

The one that'll show me my bel esprit

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