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Once again spring’s foretold return folds my running wild feet earth into neat bundles of childish tales where “the old age curse”, inherit at birth, laughs like a mystery moon with no sails. Spring is a whirling, dervish, devilish urn where I scatter my impressions like a miller to the insentient winds that no longer fill her. Spring gradually decays like a pale pillar, pregnant with winter, the ultimate painkiller. How did you like this text? You have to be logged on to be able to rate and comment. Logon or Register , it won't take up more than 10 seconds of your time. Rating This text is not yet rated. Author's description Long time, no write... Comments No comments yet, be the first to comment! |
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