Source of image of pixabay
I feel as a child who sings to the imagination, which joins the meat and the spirit as the bread and the wine.
My melancholy it enriches the awakening of me to feel, that only squeezed of ideas and pride, full house of one heat of the flame of the fondness of the essence of my memory, it is only an art of the heart, I limit or am honest now all my child's sleep, like a free lion in his forest that the acobija waiting for the heat of his herd.
Only I hope to see my house of thank you and glory that he assures to me, my sweet moment, as the dawn of a pleased day, where he sings the sparrow-hawks saying the day it has to begin.
There is time to love, time to dance, time to lose, but only she expects me for the arms warmly from my mother, who is my carpet of my love as white daisy of symbol of hope, to warm my arrival with his melody, saying to me my son you are already in house, although to the terrible long trip it pushes the hoarse bitter wind, your mother as a bird only waits in the nest.
