OMEN

The tricycle of the cemetery,
mounted on it,
riding a ghost of centuries ago
without rest
moves slowly over each tomb
stuck in the mud,
the night is the blackest of all

The tricycle of the cemetery,
ghost of centuries ago
stands there looking into your eyes
as if wanting to touch
your skin & your hair:
Run, run, run
before the hands of the ghost
  nourish your lament.
  Hands touch you now,
embracing you from behind;
you can not see the hands
you feel its warm breath

When the ghost tries to kiss you
…mouth… of worms
mouth …of… worms
mouth of …worms…

something near creaks…
it’s the… cemetery tricycle
…there is no one there

The tricycle of the cemetery,
a ghost… looking into your eyes
Run, run, run…

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