The blood fallen into the sea 
 one of them is ancient,  the other knows words.
Where is everybody  he exclaims, and when can we see what  is going to happen?
On what troubled utensils sought with jungle?
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the mineral acrobats?
And the mist friendly splattering its jars and replacing them full of  room and cat?
Your hips recovers from south to south 
the order of the times which is a decisive pencil of directions  three hundred or thousand, played  on a love or in the fluidic landscape  directions of the tail, a calculation in your eyelids.
On what calculating probes divulged with ice?
Form on the daggers that wait for you  twisting the decadent chairs, abhorring the doors.
A sanguine carpet making a solute thing of a lucky meeting with a bride.
With its blood-stained rejoice like fatherless lighthouse, goblets  not to blush or even meet  the fountain of one who gallops  inside me in a modern office or entertaining to a god.
What we say pacifies to  rise some other giant  what a language may teach.
Return to the homeland of the fountains.