The storm put down his mouth and blows the house to make a sound. Restless sleep, I turn around, I read the text of the storm dormant. But the child’s eyes are wide open in the dark, and the storm moans for him. They both love the lamps swinging. Both are half way from the language. The storm childish hands and wings. The caravan rushes towards Lapland. And the house feels its constellation of nails holding together the walls. The night is still on our floor, where all the steps muffled rest like leaves sunk in a pond, but raging outside the night! The world is passing a more severe storm. He rests his mouth to our soul, and blows to make a sound. We fear that the storm blowing there empty.
