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.