IMMA LET YOU KNOW ABOUT WHAT THE STORY TALKS !

Even if it's long as fuck, I hope the story will please you!

Owner of the written dye,
Owner of a non-predicted story,
Feather fell in a movement that avoids
The charm of this force that seduced her
Feather fell looking for exit
Of this stone camouflaged with azurite,
Soul fertilized and destroyed,
Breath that for an end is noisy.

In a field, between gold and emeralds,
The wind, at these moments, craftsman, prowls,
Between hair and black skins,
Providing them with a warm affection,
All the more so the sun is only this dawn,
Who this feeling, with tenderness, dope.

Returning to the fields,
A soul listened to the song,
Of this pleasure over time
Who on its shining stars
Adding lights and rays,
Desires and reasons,
A Truth Between Seasons
Darkening colors
Its size became a bridge
Being elongated and not in position,
Facing the wind.

A drop of sincere smile,
Came to fall without criteria
Apart from these moments of clear tone
Under the Abstract of the Polar Star
And the field of light
What was offered by this lunar task,
Being as in a river,
That she would leave at prayer
From the living to the familiar warmth,
And this gout would become a channel,
Dividing itself to the rains of whole stars,
Originally a murderous fissure,
The recall of the end in a certain way.

It was only a soul that lived the end
From this unique day after his destiny,
For at this moment what a soul
Who was not afraid of the flames
For it was only a soul
Who ever saw life slam
Silently blaming himself
At the moment when she condemns herself
In silence,
Patience and distance,
Whether it lives in nuances
With this delinquency
She was a victim of dependence,
To tell the truth, it was only his friends,
At those moments which by her thoughts it invades.
While she claims
Tragic to see such a drama.

This is only the end while the beginning,
It was only a hidden face in a deliberate way,
But how can we dispense with this Muggle truth,
An explanation where she was detained.

Prisoner, chained in the best,
Prisoner of lights and feathers elsewhere,
Prisoner of heaven's jail without ugliness
To the hungry eyes of human voyeurs
Enthusiastic of the higher heavens,
Not supporting the current drive
Who will be at the end a decision maker
From our happiness or misfortune
Depending on the passing acts,
Made of ink without eraser,
Nor even corrector,
There is only compensators,
For this ink that is the past,
Can not be deleted.

And the memories, evidently the memories,
Between the blackness of contempt and the colors of pleasure,
It would only be a chastisement to live like that,
Assuming such a person as a friend,
While transparency
Is our true appearance.

Owner of the recited dye,
Owner of an unsupported story,
Feather fell in a flowing motion,
The charm of this force which excited him
Feather fell while wanting to return to reality
On this stone composed of mediocrity,
Through souls without dignity,
Hoping to see a beautiful truth.

This day began,
With a loud voice,
A sun moving between the silk
Curtains of this house without laws,
Where this story will lead us to this path,
Having already been said, and the explanation after sees.

A task on a leaf tinged with yellow,
Who herself was spreading over an area
From the table he stared like a ghost
While among other things, the sun in view sounds
A clear tone, gives,
While disapproving these monotonous ideas,
This task on the sheet was like a cyclone.
In the eyes of this being who comes in the autumn,
Who was dressed in red and hummed:
"You have come back to me dear gorgon,
Offering me the time that at my door sounds. "
It is indeed these silent conversations,
That only silent people have always understood,
Among them, which were most marvelous,
For the understanding,
Unlike speech, is not to learn.
And it was only a profit discovered by this being,
Who came to see what he never saw appear,
Being present in another form,
In this same enormous world.

Look hooked to this hook,
Who was from the outside caught,
The exterior being so diverged,
But by no means so abridged,
Time was the limitation,
Time was abstract,
Time had no time to stop,
Time could not give what he had
Time was the time and no one gave,
For even to himself he did not possess himself.
And it was from this step that this being began to walk,
Much more to walk around to enjoy,
And it was then that he took minutes for hours,
To sink into the abstracts of flowers,
Who were in this abandoned house,
And it is sad to see insubordinate success,
While subordinate to the living
Succeeding by nature,
Is a very pure joke,
Even the wanting.

And at his gaze which was detached from the window
Being bordered by trees and containing beings
In the frame divided into four,