The world, as far as I see and hear, is panting for two muds s | Thoughts Hub

The world, as far as I see and hear, is panting for two muds shivering in a bed, but it is also a child who undresses to prove the corruption of pervertion, and it may be said that it is old wine in old jars guarded by ancient soldiers, but in this world, as I see and hear, I am a seed in a yawning land.

Forbidden, from the eye of rubble, breathing the highest sky. Otherwise, I would not knead the dust of my names with the water of my enemies, as if I were rocking the mud of the sleepers, and how from this heavy rose that shakes the morning, I smell the scent of wolves glimmering from insomnia?

But if I were to the angel sleeping in my chest, I said: "Do not sleep like an angel," then what shall I say to a politician who guides me from my tongue? Do I say: "I am in a rusty wolf’s eye that is the insomnia," but insomnia spells me and reaches me, or do I say: "I am under a dark sun begging for the palm of my hand to beg for the palm of my hand as if chasing a crow sleeping in his dreams and awakening." If I was to the earth that shatters, I said: "Do not shatter like earth," what would I say: To the illiterate that yawn in a book?

Is a departure distracting you, and the departed fulfill the quantities with marks of salt, O free man?

Your inheritance comes from the side of the waste;
The inheritance of your fanciness comes from the side of the deficit, O freedman.

Forget that you are daring, while daring is a panic that restores destiny.

You think like a sleep walker waving in the panting of the flying body.

His emotions are raging, and the twists carves its knife with irony like the whisper of the pedestrians.

The potters' ovens that cooked him are smashed. Shattered with his creation in trumpet of light.

For which pillars does your heart turn to, and your eyes seek help from his nebula's houses and his golden doors?

The meanings are inclined to you, and you interpret them as the interpretation of water in the desert, so that you will straighten up laughing in its fullness.

As for despair - your ardent cobbler pulls with his strong thread the tears that the place is attacking; And you have the inscription on the fever; You must before the end that you covered in your clothes to give birth to the end.

Why do you raise the cerebral certitude on your shoulders, urging him to see the dilemma there, in the great pavilion of pain, raging, consuming its grooves?

Your shadow is sad;
Your bones are sad.
And the most praiseworthy departure tears in your hands the hope of words, chanting that you listen to it as if you were helping it to receive a final praise.