The orange paper
Moves me like a lover.
I would never sip the milk
Or spill the language without pain,
A value of my ego games,
My ego train
To third-world grains.
The New York cement isn't as conscious,
As forest dew,
Leafy flesh of Gaia.
Cancerous mother of capital,
Words can't solve our problems
Silence won't help
Yet happy defeat does entice me.
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