Once upon a time, when we flown,
we insert our meaning
on the shelve sourranding
inners tongues of spiritual sealing.
We begun to make up our faces
above the single solitude piston.
We, who raised the religion of hate,
we, climbing the sorrow flesh,
we, becoming not body but silence.
And do we research the begging of a narration
surfing on the sky, making clouds terrorism,
trucking the innerness cooking our lives
a match with canyoning memories?
We who rides the field and country of dryness
tears, of resting soliloquy, of one getting inside
the splendor of sorriness storm. We who describe the crow
who makes the sun a biting berry building of souls.
And we fight every single day, every single time, every single
lightning bolt arriving to the Tornado territory.
The hurricane is real from time to time.
Do we deserve our self hurricane?
Only the fire could answer this or that.
We are the begginners from century to century.
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