And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more.
the poem doesn__ have stanzas, it has a body, the poem doesn__ have lines,/ it has blood, the poem is not written with letters, it__ written/ with grains of sand and kisses, petals and moments, shouts and/ uncertainties.
A Criança em Ruínas
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the poem doesn__ have stanzas, it has a body, the poem doesn__ have lines,/ it has blood, the poem is not written with letters, it__ written/ with grains of sand and kisses, petals and moments, shouts and/ uncertainties.
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