I can not speak with my voice but my voice.
His eyes were the entrance to the temple, to me, a wanderer, I love and die. And until I had sung with one night to get rid naked at the entrance of the time.
A song I walk through a tunnel. Appearances
disturbing, expressions of living figures that appear to play an active language that referred, signs that hint terrors insoluble.
A vibration of the foundation, a shudder of the foundations, drains and bore, and I know where one is seated so that it is me who expects me come to take possession of me and the foundation drain and drilling the fundamentals, what side from me is me, plotting, takes possession of my vacant lot, no, I do anything, no, I do nothing, something in me not abandoned the cascade of ash sweeps me inside of me with her that is me, me I am her and me, inexpressibly distinct from it.
The silence itself (not the same silence) swallowing night, a huge immersed in stealth Lost Steps.
I can not talk at all to say. So we lose, I and the poem, in the vain attempt to transcribe fiery relationship.
Where leads this script? A black, to sterile, to fragmented.
dolls gutted for my old hands of the wrist, the disappointment to find solid tow (pure steppe your memory): the father, who had to be Tiresias, floating in the river . But you, why you let yourself listening to stories of poplars kill snow?
I wanted my fingers penetrate wrist on the keys. I did not want contact, like a spider, the keyboard. I wanted to break down, nail me, I look for, petrified. I wanted to get on the keyboard to enter in music to have a homeland. But the music was moving, she hurried. Only when a saying relapsed, encouraged in me the hope that the establishment of something akin to a train station, I mean a starting point and insurance firm, a place from which to begin from the place, to the place, binding and fusion with the place. But the saying was too short, so that I could not found a station because it did not more than something out of a train rails that contorted and distorted . Then I left the music and its betrayal because the music was above or below, but not in the center, in place of the merger and the meeting. (You who were my only home where do find you? Perhaps in this poem that I write.)
Night at the Circus recovered a lost language at the time that riders with torches in hand fierce galloping round on horses in black. Even in my dreams that there will be a choir of angels to provide something similar to warm to my heart sounds of hooves against the sand. (And I said, 'Write, for these words are faithful and true.)
(He is a man or a stone or a tree that is about to start singing.)
And it was a thrill vibrating gently (I say to instruct which lost me and shakes his musicality with more dissonance than a horse spurred on by a torch in the sands of a foreign country).
was hugging the ground, saying a name. I thought I had died and that death was constantly saying a name.
This is not, perhaps, what I mean. Say and say this is not pleasant. I can not speak with my voice but my voice. Also this poem may be a trap, a scenario more.
When the ship alternated his rhythm and faltered in violent water, straightened me like Amazon just dominates with his blue eyes to the prancing horse (or was it his blue eyes?). Green water on my face, you have to drink until the night is open. No one can save me for I am invisible, even for me to call your voice. Where am I? I'm in a garden.
There is a garden.
His eyes were the entrance to the temple, to me, a wanderer, I love and die. And until I had sung with one night to get rid naked at the entrance of the time.
A song I walk through a tunnel. Appearances
disturbing, expressions of living figures that appear to play an active language that referred, signs that hint terrors insoluble.
A vibration of the foundation, a shudder of the foundations, drains and bore, and I know where one is seated so that it is me who expects me come to take possession of me and the foundation drain and drilling the fundamentals, what side from me is me, plotting, takes possession of my vacant lot, no, I do anything, no, I do nothing, something in me not abandoned the cascade of ash sweeps me inside of me with her that is me, me I am her and me, inexpressibly distinct from it.
The silence itself (not the same silence) swallowing night, a huge immersed in stealth Lost Steps.
I can not talk at all to say. So we lose, I and the poem, in the vain attempt to transcribe fiery relationship.
Where leads this script? A black, to sterile, to fragmented.
dolls gutted for my old hands of the wrist, the disappointment to find solid tow (pure steppe your memory): the father, who had to be Tiresias, floating in the river . But you, why you let yourself listening to stories of poplars kill snow?
I wanted my fingers penetrate wrist on the keys. I did not want contact, like a spider, the keyboard. I wanted to break down, nail me, I look for, petrified. I wanted to get on the keyboard to enter in music to have a homeland. But the music was moving, she hurried. Only when a saying relapsed, encouraged in me the hope that the establishment of something akin to a train station, I mean a starting point and insurance firm, a place from which to begin from the place, to the place, binding and fusion with the place. But the saying was too short, so that I could not found a station because it did not more than something out of a train rails that contorted and distorted . Then I left the music and its betrayal because the music was above or below, but not in the center, in place of the merger and the meeting. (You who were my only home where do find you? Perhaps in this poem that I write.)
Night at the Circus recovered a lost language at the time that riders with torches in hand fierce galloping round on horses in black. Even in my dreams that there will be a choir of angels to provide something similar to warm to my heart sounds of hooves against the sand. (And I said, 'Write, for these words are faithful and true.)
(He is a man or a stone or a tree that is about to start singing.)
And it was a thrill vibrating gently (I say to instruct which lost me and shakes his musicality with more dissonance than a horse spurred on by a torch in the sands of a foreign country).
was hugging the ground, saying a name. I thought I had died and that death was constantly saying a name.
This is not, perhaps, what I mean. Say and say this is not pleasant. I can not speak with my voice but my voice. Also this poem may be a trap, a scenario more.
When the ship alternated his rhythm and faltered in violent water, straightened me like Amazon just dominates with his blue eyes to the prancing horse (or was it his blue eyes?). Green water on my face, you have to drink until the night is open. No one can save me for I am invisible, even for me to call your voice. Where am I? I'm in a garden.
There is a garden.
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