So, behind the window of the habit of death , our autumn garden, the slaughterhouse of the rotten word of the heart, the heart of the sonnet, where the dew of the flower itself, the hail when the wrath of God dies, when the wrath of God is gone, the ground when you have struck every night, the star of the layer, singing from you, and the
long-standing wonder and regret is this, going with you to the end of sleep, dancing with you until the end of the sounds , what is the glory of going with you forever, even until the day of the day... The
light of yesterday and still, O lamp of my burning shadow , burn from the evening without us until the end of the day......
O fresh air of the suspended garden , an old one like a dream, around a boat, make an effort at the foot of this broken arch, O good voice on the right
of the wounds of sobs, your balm, my sob, my hot tulip, like the dew, my hands and feet, struggle again , in the winding open road, I go with you to the bottom of my dream, I dance with you to the end of the sounds , what is the glory of going with you, going with you?Forever, even until the day........ The light of yesterday and I am still ...
