There is an eternity of love in an invisible form of. metaphysics [The Hope (by F.w.)

Every hour is a tip in spine. Each hour that passes.
Morning dew. Poisoning of roses. All content stoicism
in an insect and our feeling. Words with sewn efforts
at distorting mirrors. The corridor is long like a snake.

Silence is slow. The dream is a hole, a fog, we
become an inner awareness lost on the roadside
before extreme vacuum. Vertigo. So many knives in a rose.

Every hour that drips. The volume of love, so many volume
must support organ. The elemental impregnation of love.
The essential element. The hour begins without speech, with a cry.
The time of tiny presence in front of the vastness and trends
blurred. The time of innocence. The moment of truth. A cry. In this season,
we must believe in the shags sounds, you know
ago to the flightless cormorants on the Galapagos Islands.
Endangered. Where cling the soul corsairs birds?

Humiliation remains writing. Survives the night, I look at the roots come off my eyelids. There is an eternity of love in an invisible form of metaphysics, there is a physical eternal love. The imagination must endure everything, dreams erect monuments where white statues fall every night. I have to pick up dust to better understand the world since childhood. I must bow. We need to raise the stones. I could draw all lines of Borges but I decided to love humbly. At this moment there, I could draw a single line of Borges: “Nothing that trains a thin wire inexhaustible” _says the Hourglass.

I could without will focus the destiny to a funnel
when sleep closes the faces. I could stifle into my arms
derisory channel which drinks all lesions in forms of sounds empty
when one becomes blind. We would be children of (in-will).
We could go further than the front which no longer exists
or after that remains latent …

But it is Hope that carries us

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