The Dance of The Flickering Flame of Language

About the Book

The Killer of Beauty Sometime when I walk through the park I halt my view So I do not waste it on the beautiful scenery of nature As I am the killer of beauty. When I resume it I know that I will Send to death a rose bud Bouquet of mimosa or from the tree tops Red bunches of grains hang in abundance From thin wigs irresistibly flailing in their beauty. And so, now I observe out of a blue vase on the table Those red bunches hang slowly dying for me The killer of beauty.

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