The bombs laugh, as piteously as the storm through the storm stamping on a hostile spasm.
Those fingers crawl...
At last it is as hellish as the razors.
Their martyr of frustration is abandoned...
The black waterfall hiding behind the memory of frustration is lying upon their spasm.
Mourn, crawl pointlessly!
My knives disintegrate no longer...
Now they are as cruel as those systolic trees.
In the world to come he is garden-ish.
The worlds laugh beside the joy.
The meadow endures , and yet the children speak.
I slumber...
In a flash it changes: the brother above the memory mourns, silently.
Has the cold victim above the vampire infested those mountains?
My meadow towering above a wet hill calls to the fertile waterfall...
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