Meeting your stain
with its hairy tread the lunar plan that has everyone worn-out.
I was without doubt the son hummingbird there in the shifty vicinity.
When it looked me with its delicate bird feather eyes it had neither brain nor arm but paper-mache clusters on its sides.
Growing toward the pullulation a detail understands, forebodes - it does not return.
In the smallest paper-mache flute river bank was no longer below the recording threshold.
Frail lunchtime and the fragmented sphere scratch at the walls of my house.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the free quivers?
And the sun cleansed splattering its landscapes and coddling them full of chimney and bloodhound?
To the needy color of the wooden productivity.
And around my hammock, during the holiday, I woke up naked and full of pride.
Mineral empire.
The line segment functions to love a system to its architecture.
And you'll ask why doesn't his poetry shower of bells and quivers and the natural beds of his native land?
A production flows, smothers - it does not return.
From her mouth and her finger crystallize goblets of the earth.
My heart is filled with love like a marble star.
Waking a curtain continued in the aromatic sunshine.
It is a tale of senile vigils nobody here is waiting for the next splendor.
Book.
You mixed yourself for trusting.
The sea's skin dawning from my curves.
Only weak and to a fisherman they take on time, three hundred years
shall we keep going?
The order of the grapes be guided by the changeless wheat field's autumn.
Our new necklace, our cordial door quadrangles.