How beautiful is the Poetry of the ones
Whose hearts ache of last nights love.
That left them and their shirts,
crumpled on the bed sheets.
Like feathers of a willful bird,
Gotten hurt from a branch of home.
That now withers on the roads,
without a flight.
How lucky are these men , that cry.
Silently behind their closet doors
And their tears are mistaken
for sweat dripping off their cheeks.
As the nerves of their hearts shrink
Into tiny queues of ants, until
Their eyes break into hundreds
of these creatures.
How lucky are the ones,
Whose hearts ache of last nights love
And in the morning,
No one even knows about it.
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