Diaphanous little hand placed on the guipure of the bodice hemmed in shadow ankle wound swirl of memories in balance echoes without return of restless hope. At the Flora pavilion the muslins evaporate nostrils open to the smell of amber minuet cut with a gavotte burlesque spinoff of a blazing fire in the fireplace celestial mechanics carrying his plume high. The bells flying surround the countryside ahead of the wolves Elizabethan strawberry blooms the ancient fountain spirit comma of a halo of tears the men rushed into the pit the branches rubbing their limbs in the crafty wind. Diaphanous little hand that the rain flakes the dust of the road unrolls the wave romance on the contrary of a bruised night condemning the child watching you there against the embankment to dispose of his feigned mother. 401
These birdsong who accompany us on the road below our expectations are the plain call of our elevation. Rainbow of this aspiration to bring us together to find our origins reappeared mad goats at the top of the rock of the offerings. Even in January the cool morning bend the needy under the fork of simplicity.
