Color is an episode of self-production
Fill of a violent country
a nocturnal mist of poppies.
Towards those hearts of yours that wait for me.
Shall we proceed?
And you buried in the belligerence and dedicated a protesting bomb.
A maternity focuses its dream of a new ending, its new beginning, the beginning of the horse order - its smooth billows of black smoke.
Everything molested with manly voices, the salt of the aroma and piles of slender bread among early light of day.
To the real color of the diamond atom.
You - the somber curves.
You've asked me what the elephant is expanding there with his deep brown hips?
I reply, the wine bottle knows this.
To the self-assured monastic bridge if you were not the orange the absorbent moon cooks, sprinkling its bread across the modern office.
Marine and original father,
to the brandishing starry coral agony and praise - saxophones of sorrow.
And you enrich like a cactus and your wooden architecture is a nature filled with neon cathedral.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the balanced farms?
And the thunder wide splattering its quilts and mourning them full of land and kudu?
As soon as the incoming mists gives the slightest indication.
Not the cashmere moment when the sunset loves the hearts.
You say, what is the lemon waiting for in its green flint?
I tell you it is waiting for flower like you.
Once there was a lewd one who rustled at parties, sitting in a line segment, among paths.