It shakes again awkwardly, trembling with the cry of wind jealous, tinged with hurry, the waves hit her again, they were pulling from the bottom a painful moaning ... Open by the storms, in the rock zest wounds, filled with ugly forms of life, the rags were lulled by the smell they collected, happy and cheering with the laugh of an evil coyote ... But thirsty for sensations arrived and mussels with hearts instead of pearls, they gathered pus, which screamed screaming ... who could predict in the lonely life the bitter development ... And the morning sun scorns again, vaguely promises that with the nocturnal rage will send ugly thoughts with which he will sting the wounds left by the night's torrent ... From the heart, grains are rubbed and filled and the wounds, but for a short time, from everywhere attacks from the soul and pull out frantic moans ... The foolish rock ...
