Each passing day increases my perception of dust. Being infinitely small before all'infinitamrnte great. Branch dried in a cold winter, atrophied conscience in front of a starry night, spring buried by snow. Canto faint, unable to spread, heat soon defeated by a total nudity.
dust and stars.
Feeling dust because cisono the endless "torches." Feeling cold, because there is the warm belly of the infinite love, dried up because there is a branch feel my own apple blossom.
my dust, my winter, my atrophy, the weak hand is my declaration of abandonment before the Being, is my cry for life, the love that knows the birth always wanted to be everything. Inside me, however, won a melancholy, a melancholy moved in front of the stars whose love decorating my dust.
0 comments:
Post a Comment