Wednesday, December 26, 2012
A pressing demise is generated by manners,
Heirs of the recipient are overburdening
And were lacking as far as coincidences shone,
Like the theater and its light that follows.
Four hundred volumes of grumbles and uncaring beings
Concentrate in the yellow desert with the sea.
Best are the seas lumped with rocks on housing estates,
Reclusive are the fellows of an ordinary war.
The first fate shall be seconds and the hours
Are along, clothes are held up in the wind.