A human tins are boiling in the fire,mothers language encumber you in the
game.A bloody vestige has become black thanks to sorrow,an apparent sympathy
destroys the lane.When the leaves falling down,I remember the trees.Marionete
on the string pumps up the feel.You stole the sences,I cant find the keys,and
you slowly forget,what youve polled.You cut the bread,and humiliate government
rid of the toy,which have stolen your dream.You bring the fait,which fulfil
the wish,you take a wine,which means your cream.Thinking as poet,drawing a so-
litude above the the grave of your soul.

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