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Spiritually BlindMy sight is a woe of me
because without my glasses I cannot see.
With no specs, all is a blur.
People walk by, of who I am not sure.
Many faces, liquefied without limit,
there eyes are no more than a empty pit.
Can't tell if they stare at my face,
or glance at my untied lace.
I am stuck in a phase I can't escape,
with others' altering blurs and eye holes agape.
But alas, once again my sight is clear,
yet I live in the same familiar fear.
HopeHope is a dirty trick to the mind.
It feeds on the lone brains of mankind.
Yet we eat it up to get what we expect,
and then we don't see the true fate we have met.
Like a widow at her watch, facing the sea,
but she doesn't notice what was meant to be.
Her body lets her mind and soul to be eaten whole,
so she dies to helplessly cope with her infinite hope.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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