Tuesday, September 12, 2006

My Cavity Hurts When Cold




It happened that afternoon I saw him walking suddenly at the edge of the abyss. It was not in the task of understanding any language but had surrendered to the exercise of succumbing to feel the miracle and magic, embracing the world between orange walls in the madness of his delirium ... And I saw him. I saw him packing

divine hands touch the moon with that chameleon aspect of strident black hat, bringing me gifts of serene forest full of elves. And to see me
smiled and acknowledged her smile all the roads that had come and all the mountains he had climbed and the blinking of his eyes flashing could also see the history of their ancestors came from continents flashing old sonnets under magic hats.

I looked into his eyes can only look into the eyes of a stranger and talk about love at first sight on in fires of stars, recognizing the warrior who is capable of dancing in the moonlight bite of winter still the limit of its forces to continue dreaming stories and fables.
And as I watched him wind started blowing and smoking litter is plotted all the lives that had lived and all the stories I'd dreamed of ... I knew then

between Messiah and artificial paradise through his eyes the history of the old man gave to their children glass eyes to dream, I came across his fingers whispering sound of bold Moroccan had lost their wings, wrapped me in its whirl and tell me in whispers of the sun dance of the tribes of ancient times and still looking at me still woven in the length of my hair of gold the untold story of the origin of all rays.

And I saw him, she kept looking even without holding her hand as if to never let him get away on the promontory of its thousand memories when light universe began to fill with multicolored sparkles in the night lights of our continent away and held my breath at the stroke painful discovery in his eyes bathed in a breath of certainty and still held in the kiss given recognized at last thread its bright purple silk premonition of the first poems that begin to baste ...

(For Idiot)


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