The death of that red tulip was the shroud of laughter on the lips, around those mirrors was the specter of a catastrophe in the night, the death of the butterflies , the killing of the dandelions
, his breath groaned sadly, the nest was going to deteriorate, his decayed body testified, he did not think that the shroud should be taken and the breath should be given , and instead of being all, all the sights are moments away from remembering the glory of the thought of dying in him . His existence has gone to the wind, the butterflies, the killing of the dandelions
, he was frantically looking for revenge, the wound of the steps of the rape, he did not know that he was dying, all the originality remains, the death of the butterflies , the killing of the dandelions.
