chute at the bottom where the wind comes. Your love are a thing under the thin skin. I could spend a lifetime with his body pressed against the sand and wait for my fingers stringeran. I let the power to decide my course, inevitable as the stream that watered river. And delay over the stones that fate has placed in my way, in small eddies that entangled my life. Too much time has passed since the days when I was spring, nymph clean and pure, and the mountain forests sang my voice in an echo of endless sweet words. How can love let us lose when we searched for a long time? Chased as silver trout below the surface of a time that was no longer time? I wonder, now that prepares the mouth as the last hour. But no answer comes from the wind. Response does not reach.
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