Erratic Heartbeat Murmur

discontinuous and poets Poets

Poets and poets.
There are those who go barefoot on the asphalt as clumsy frogs jumping out of water, or swinging their hips to burning smell the proximity of the fairs.
Some travel on airplanes with paper and sorry from the windows look like the wings trounced the treetops, the trees that they forgot to write, while others prefer the sound of the train and the anonymous bustle of the seasons, while pursuing the lost paradise that was stolen and never confess, and many, unknowingly, maintain the finances of lifeless brown camphor smell. Poets
free poems poems have been written by too many poets and poems that the poet who sought to hide tireless a hole, a place to build (it), a piece of freedom.
Poets.
(cob)

CHILDREN

The forest is a bird, its song stops and you blush.
There is a clock that does not ring.
There's a hole with a nest of white beasts.
There is a cathedral that descends and ascends a lake.
There is a pram abandoned in the bushes, or running down the path, curb.
There is a comedy troupe of costumed, marching along the road bordering the forest.
There is, finally, when you are hungry and thirsty, someone who you ejected.

Arthur Rimbaud

ENFANCE Au bois il ya a oiseau are chant stops you and makes you blush. / There is a clock that does not ring. / There is a hollow with a nest of white animals. / There is a cathedral that goes down and a lake rises. / There is a small car abandoned in the bushes, or running down the trail, wrapped. / There is a small troupe of actors in costume, glimpsed on the road through the border of the wood. / There is, finally, when you are hungry and thirsty, someone who drives you away.