When midnight comes,
The poets surface from the filth
Sucking beauty out of the first bosom.
Such thugs have the most macabre taste
For all, birds and flowers, that perish
Away from the Unlimited world,
They would rather weep than tweet,
And live for a barren sky,
With hands full of stench,
Full of goodbyes,
Full of vultures and thistle sap.
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