quinta-feira, 17 de novembro de 2011

The Last Poem of a Buddha's Friend

My chest was hurt by an arrow where an arrow hit me first. I'm glad I weep tears and bleed my blood, so as to never spill someone else's blood, so as to never salt my wounds.
Should I drown, I hope to drown on ink. And my words only have the right to run over me.

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