DAYS IN WHITE
These days, I get up with birches, and forehead restart interlock the strands of wheat, in front of a mirror of ice. Amalgamated to my breath, sfiocca milk: so early, has easy foam. And where the glass I fogged with breath, seems painted by a child finger, yet your name: innocence! After a long time. These days, I am sorry to learn to forget, and be forced to remember. I Love. I love to incandescence, and thank heaven biblically. I learned it in flight. These days, I think the albatross, which he lifted and transported in a country which is a white sheet. I guess the horizon, shining in its setting, my fabulous continent, over there, that I was dismissed, already covered the shroud. I live, and listening from afar his swan song!