Cvijeta Zuzoric, Flora Zuzzori

Skinned is night to its last, dead, gong and crowned
With soaring ardor roused from zenith mirage
Of unrest dreams winding me up around;
I smell staged foul as false, but blunt visage
Gasping with no mask; a knife to kill love:
To fall and coarse all of encrypted stars
By mixing power with endless above
To bend the rules and burn eye-opened scars
But what is it, after all, left for us?
To bury undone? To grow distance seeds?
To drip the innocence blood; the throat cuts?
Dost thou seem to blink ever to thy deeds?
Still, thy can let caged role to air out
and wash the stage of a sapped, bleeding doubt.

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