In the yellow
tower
a bell tolls.
Over the yellow
wind
the bell-notes flower.
In the yellow
tower
the bell stops.
With dust the wind
shapes silver prows.
The six Strings
The guitar
makes dreams weep,
The sobs of lost
souls
escape through its round
mouth.
And like the tarantula
it weaves a large star
to trap the sighs
floating in its black
wooden cistern.
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