no tears for those ways. seldom true. if you cannot confide a landscape of flame. red flame as I climb ash and blood. and silence was the only recognition of my love, half burnt half dispersed. love do not weep for you do not know the truth of it. so seldom must you mourn and cry for the love you expect late. an enormous night arrested between my abondoned clouds.
I must not mourn nor cry for unbodied waves of longing. it is seldom true. this is only earth and clouds of displaced ecstasies. you pass, you disagree, you caress, from blue to red, from red to blue. darker than the Origin when time was a fruit tree. the idea of a baby breathing against the forest. darkness intervenes for two months, while the story speaks of slaves and their tortured flowers. the sigh offers no escape through the lungs of love. you cannot breath these knots of flesh that will be my song of water from the muscles of slaves. you believe in the sword you shall die by the sword. keep dancing and wrecking the green powers of rebirth.
Yesterday the sun struggled with my tongue and my music was lighted by acid lips and wounds... destruction moving through drums and seashells. the feeling of departure flows and comes to me. I almost touched the traveler of my dream full of horses staring a battlefield. they enter like wind, depart like smoke, surrounded by infinite layers of sleep, red of angst, blue of nothing.
the landscape unveils. you come to the forest looking for someone else. and a tree shall explode to avoid a false melody line. you shall remain nameless. I recall the sound of your art of crying and divide the summer and winter. there was a full excess of fragile birds returning home and learning me to breathe again. but this time is finished... all lack a body...
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