An eye behind the tree with quivering fangs and snout, the wolf flourishes open country. Assessing the space he splits the meadow towards the flat front embankment, the purveyor of dreams. Mid-Lent sated he sleeps, fish fricassee in memory of days gone by. Low on the horizon open windows the sun is blazing, footsteps of good people. The adjoining ruin in its box of raspberries braid the adventure address of little flying hands. Spinning time going back through the circle of the seasons crying is rare when the absence comes. Everything looks like him in this big room honored by the creaking cupboard with fragrant old clothes. Pass and we come back in the village of iron shoes church Square the burning bread pie. Traveler on the way been come bite into the shrub berries in memory of this life.
