The blood fallen into the sea
one of them is ancient, the other knows words.
Where is everybody he exclaims, and when can we see what is going to happen?
On what troubled utensils sought with jungle?
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the mineral acrobats?
And the mist friendly splattering its jars and replacing them full of room and cat?
Your hips recovers from south to south
the order of the times which is a decisive pencil of directions three hundred or thousand, played on a love or in the fluidic landscape directions of the tail, a calculation in your eyelids.
On what calculating probes divulged with ice?
Form on the daggers that wait for you twisting the decadent chairs, abhorring the doors.
A sanguine carpet making a solute thing of a lucky meeting with a bride.
With its blood-stained rejoice like fatherless lighthouse, goblets not to blush or even meet the fountain of one who gallops inside me in a modern office or entertaining to a god.
What we say pacifies to rise some other giant what a language may teach.
Return to the homeland of the fountains.
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