Monday, May 10, 2010


It is the raindrops
the gods that climb clouds
instead of the winds
that clash upon the
japanese spoken sea knives
what to reminisce
a blob of ink in
qualities that make up districts
it is forever spoken, the
mouth that never speaks
remembers Ronins, the outcasts
an awful blend of specialty in
spite of terrors that wind up
the nights; it is never
a matter of conscience
to betray our masters
souls; to be free to
be without our eyes
we chose, we can't come back
it goes without saying
the clash of words that
forms our name

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