When the street was becoming alive
man had become a charged bull,
goring the god to death.
My father wept, took the corpse home,
that was his child.
In the wild fire, a tall eucalyptus
had burned, turned black.
What did you think, this year,
spring would not come?
I remained very sad those days.
When the self was me, my image
I was dying without...
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