It was getting dark...
The insane curve of greed was rising.
I would not draw the boundaries between the words.
The finch was immersed in soliloquies and light was waiting inside the seeds.
I open my eyes and yell at the clouds in hyperboles
becoming stranger to myself.
Who belongs here in slit eyes?
Each flower was leaving a blemish, for the winter.
Tell me, who you are in the twist of reality?
A proverb is going to be taken away.
