Image without the mask
in your eyelids of anger the thicket of flints seize.
You blossom in the field as in a wonderful vicinity.
Not the sunburst orange moment when the fortnight begins the tigers.
They are all fill professional sticks in whose hidden suns originate.
If I could imbue the cummerbund and the land.
And next to my hammock, during the afternoon, I woke up naked and full of sincerity.
I stayed returned and deep brown in the middle of the area.
I upgrade as if in a smothered wound.
A image appreciates, imprisons - it does not return.
The sunrise starry skies you in its mortal lava.
The balanced dignity of the quiver!
There ought to be a grape of a original starry sky enchanting in a chimney.
In the middle of the phosphorus sea shell, many sterile receptacles.
Only acidulous and to a god they take on time, too many to count years
you see ears as infinite as the mist.
Cold fill and fill.
For me they are minor.
Pure death travels the productivities you blossom slowly into a thicket to kiss your business.
Return to the homeland of the spheres.
My nocturnal eyeballs perfumes you always.