The strained breast of the ugliest witch
Vomits the dirtiest teeth with laughter
And we, the naïve people
With One thousand four hundred years
Behind the freedom
Quench her herd with our tears
Those who would have died in their desert.
We rally our worriers
Beyond the warless fronts
Showing them our destination
As these nocturnal reptiles
Creep into the street moss.
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