When it leafs them of the trees fall,
the trees die once a year and they resuscitate her intense green of the life
and the flowers are painted, immortalized in the painting humans' pictures, but
in their immortal works. Us no, as we don't have leaves for they fall and later
if they renew, we died, we fell and we never again got up, in any hole
abandoned ourselves.
And Ulysses in the eternity of the sea
navigates without Penelope to find. The sound of a lute is heard in the
distance, it seems the sea to calm, and of Penelope always to fall in
love.
In the earth lied down, buried, of the
humans moved away, and no longer remembered, of so much suffering,
tortured.
So many dreams that I had in vain,
wanted to accomplish them but they sent me for the face, always in the fear of
the: will they shoot me?
I see a beautiful landscape, the sea
loaded of light illuminating the beach, and in her a melodious voice in the
sands kept, five hundred, six hundred, and seven hundred years later. And the
voice sings, it transplants the dances and you sing them of the Medium Age. It
is true yes; any one of us is a machine of the time. It is suddenly a musical
procession was done present, and the beauty of the Medium Age was reborn,
touching. Yes, the most wonderful sounds are of that time, so much beauty
awaiting the discovery. The Holy Grail is the music of the Medium Age.
And in the distance in earth, I see a
loaded field, fence of jasmines, the Jasmine of poets attract, without him
poets would not exist. A stream is made present, absentee, the green is not
left commands the life, and we are not green for that lost her. And where there
is no green, there is north.
Everything is born and he dies us also,
but while alive we should show the road of the eternity, of the solemnity of
the love. But there are always the ones that are considered immortal; those are
the misfortune of our lives.
To live is an ephemera dance, which we
wanted that it never again ends. To live is to resist, in the bows of the love
to succumb.
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