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STORM IN THE PALANQUIN
Beloved, at whose house will we sleep tonight?

We will all rise,

forgetfully by night as He stops by us.

The cold old breeze will creep our nerves,

unveiling the mystery into the dark.



At whose house will we sleep tonight?

The winds alongside the crawling

night sounds will lead us into the grave.

One after the other, willingly or not,

cheerfully or disappointed, our feet...