In childhood, the horizon stretched before me, unburdened by the weight of any sentiment. I ignored the shadows cast on the ball waiting in the grass for a kick, to leap through the air, like the nightingale.
I crushed lilies underfoot as I ran, the gardens rejoiced that a human age exports play to the society of plants.
For the souls that prefer the field in full vigor, we would define wine as "a memory of grapes."
The silhouette of a bow (of someone destined to straighten the empire) dispels the clash of swords in its charge.
The coin describes in the air angles of decay, under the eyes of a meteorologist with the traits of a corrector of storm magnitudes.
