the obeisance that courage transcribed into a pounding heart, is freed as the quietness corrupts the mountains after a dismal catastrophe, flying over the harvest that entertains over deception and imposture. once the inert moon meet the eyes of those who have the misfortune of practicing the subtle language that is transformed into water, a language that comes from hidden heaves, is released as the gentle hum that keep consent sleepless and cast doubt.

while the grooves are dragged between the pale cloudiness, blearing and shining in the gelid momentum, a sign sticks out to surprise the one silent beneath that solid mantle of drab tones; the water, you see, is thicker when mixed with desires and persuasions, when she remedies the sorrow that nest as empty wells, she refills them, but by exposing in bare naked skin to the hands that hold, those watersheds that once rejoiced in torments are once again empty and dry, longing for her touch once again, longing to be buried as a watery grave.

but then she rebels, arrogant and misleading, defecting from its depth and in sinuous melodies captures the passion that can not rise from between the inflow and crash of her humor, the humor that looms over the dark fields, drowning in a range beautiful landscape. so as this carry the words away, depraving and depriving, her words would take over those artifacts that grant beauty, that paint, that give the reason a toy to play with, that incest the nonsense over the wounded flesh, but she shall be beloved, for make those artifact become softer, for hoard the strength towards a new harvest, to drench the graves and refill the harmony.