From the brook to the birdsong echoing the mountains so tender so fragile this ascent towards oneself in the dusting of lights open mouths we will go the white halo of mornings guiding the shepherd open hand who will take it from our childhood between the rocks in the thick of a vegetation than the amble of a horse will inaugurate messenger of a last promise according to a time of offerings of frank words on the doorstep of the mind my little meadow tongue my sweet friend of the woods my unreason in Sunday best caressed so many times without breaking the antlers and what goes up the silence of prayer.
Striking the dark abyss the wave came powerful and warm crushing our illusions at the bottom of the shattered abers.
Everything was bigger prayer rode boats the wave lashed the faces there was on the bridge than tangled cords and rattling reef.
When from the sky springs the walrus horn beauty seizes us to impale us in the vertigo of supplications the assumed moment of inattention.
Gold and light poured down relationships with the whole the finger of loneliness in evidence at the roaring fiftieth calling us back to work so much love to give.
