Spears freeze the sun in moist soil and pierce the shadows flee, naked and empty. The rain falls, the smell that sometimes the grass allowed to rise, warm and vague.
hands of children are always dirty, rain, dirty fingers of earth and leaves. So we hear of children through nursery rhymes, in the gardens in bloom by the tears of light.
on the short grass green wave that rises and falls, whispering in our ears:
- "Minor crackling farandoles major."
is a man hanging from the tree said: "This print is pignochée of light." The man is the tree, his words are masked by the noise of the rain runs off. Her feet dangling from the ground.
Behind him a stone, a rock star. A large stone sinking, smooth, covered with water from the boredom. Joyful rhymes are lost, are silent. They suffocate in the forest timber of milk in the doldrums of things.
blood stain the grass black. And children run in lanes plant after traces of blood as small stones of the labyrinth. To dig holes, and rock, the epitaph on the tomb Scots, in light of the moon. Nothingness that flows over the smooth stone ages, children find themselves in the forest where there is nothing to do, nothing, he is just human.
Man dug holes, his face covered with blood. And his head leaning on the bark, he thinks about the water on his face, to us, face, dust and earth against the embrace of the universe.
The rope of boredom, hanging around his neck, was hanging from the tree.
"A king without entertainment is a man full of misery."
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