The ink is extinguished. The fear grows before its agony ... It slows down, rhythmic and barren its old fertile earth.
Double the roofs of the site, the strenuous hell of absence ...
No more pollen his verb. The melody wanders deaf through the palms of a thousand snowfalls. Disdain has broken the window ... it crosses a blind dream and from the break they run wheat and honey. Lobsters and bees will see in them a tribute to the solitudes where escape with thousands of kisses to the distant blow of their wings.
You calcinate, tenderness, in the vain furnace of your absurdity. The aroma of your oil is felt fickle ... impossible dressing in its acrimony. Therefore, do not return the face to the known call and tread indiscriminately, the manna of a servant body escaping from your hands.
The early hail burned the eyelids, and the flower ... the flower no longer sees.
It will be muted ... With night tears you will visit the lake of your lotuses. Drink bitter water that will sweeten to make you live, watching your eyes perch among the clouds of open skies.
It will be all the senses and none ... You will feel the upstart wind bringing you volatile under your skirt and go in the breath of the dry leaf that cut the cheek of your winter.