Little rose of the French alleys had come over the canopy fiddling with ideas as old as his pants while from below washing the bodies. It was moving it was moaning there were plenty of them and the rain over it served a fine accompaniment punctuating the pang of the horse desperate for freedom on the plateaus hemmed with short grass. Little rose put on her glasses and everything turned pink again the fruits the corbelling of the windows the cat that passed by neighbor's horn the very air smelled of roses. To run away not rather join such music by Lully harpsichord on the happy event with wild shivers childhood pet peeves which put us all faceted we the eyes of the cyclone plagued by the passing of the witness. Little rose measure your steps it will only last a while woman will come adorned with tenderness without spirit of revenge give birth to the Spirit impulsive whisper denting the coral reef of a language rose in the swoon of the lagoon inner kingdom where to be born and reborn in welcoming what is to come.
