.
He lost his voice in the hand of the reed, her heart sings with joy and fiber tale silence of absence. The clouds are heavy, they weigh and fall apart on this earth trembles under the wild charm of a gentle babbling. It it remains the language, beads of stars, grains of stone to the purified soul.
He picks and pushes the sound came from heaven, it ignores the arpeggios, it ignores the agreement, all charm for the voice that rises in a column, engorged sweetness. He is raking light and with his madness, he is lonely, loyal and armed with patience he repainted the real gardens of hope there at the gates of heaven. The moon
the crown, and bears his image on the skin of the pond. The sky was a shroud, it envelops the clouds and gives them courage. The enchanted landscape, the landscape sets in, everything is connected, everything is tied, the charm is knees. He caresses the branches and he breaks his hand full color in almond blossom.
Hope wakes up, he opened his eyes and sprinkled with salt feathers of the bird. He returned on time and short on the fence, his strides are long and each step gets closer to the moment, away from the darkness and slips under the wing of the child he was. It is calm now, he must move on.
the way, he embraces the birds, he takes the rest, and a fig leaf it makes their coat. He finds his voice in the neck of the reeds, he sings on the wire and the cry of the bird. He fled appearances, he scraped down and the tip of his lips he gives birth to nymphs, soap bubbles on the shoulders of children.
Time is waiting, time is silent metronome and hammers. It hurts to the edge of age, around the corner at the entrance of the passage a venomous spine it tears the heart. Then the tip of his tongue he catches a white stone to heal the wound. He returned to the band, he is reborn.
It is on the way and will find peace, cheerfulness, relief of his heart, and empty and full. It is a thrill, he advances and wonders. It claw roots that invade his mind, he moves at a good pace, did not return. It goes along the way and eat berries, small beads of onyx that blacken the tongue.
He trembles, he has a fever, he snaps his teeth. His tongue is black ebony. He sings, however, he called his brothers, he calls his mother, he called the poor souls who crawl under the earth. He advances no waiting, no suffering, and fell on the dry mud of the road. It is in issue, it is repentance, his heart is a bird.
He whistles and chirps, it blows and he smiled. He remains, and undresses her dress in misfortune. It sings the language of birds, the big bust, chest full of gentle mirth, stomach burning, stomach torn. It bends like a bow, he will deliver. It will arise, regroup and come back, do not die.
The birds and escorted through the air, it opens the way, dress light, make it grow wings. Sometimes naked and delivered to the sources of poetry, and settled forever in the starry sky.
(Painting: Apollo and Pegasus / Gustave Moreau)
0 comments:
Post a Comment