Harlot Leave me alone Without me having to beg The day runs over me And living is a losing fight. My pale desire Is a restless fly That, disillusioned, lives in the penumbra Fed up with its own boredom. My story is a badly written work Pending other interpretations Except mine. There is no exile more cruel than life itself Against the facts and factors, we only have submission We are like harlots in the hands of the delinquent system.
Memória e poesia 
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