The wound.
Water intoxicated everything that was to its passage.
Previously all sang there in all quietude:
Let's pitch, frogs, and this dancing
shadiness that,
by this water, didn't refuse the altitude. As if, for this kindness, it thanked the sky.
Because the words in no moment could not translate this writing that escaped the eye of the real, that it had the tendency to become delirium.All this ambiance reigned there graciously;
This place was a paradise of salute, Until the where the misfortune avenger coped and all disappeared in the absolute.
The time changed everything, the stream is to dry:it remains there only the scar of this waterMore no one comes to plunge his beak thereNo fish, no frog, no bird.
This shadiness that,
previously, to trust its virtuesThe silence drew itself, this song was quietWho would be tempted by this place without aspirations?One day, by chance, the stray himself of it will clear a path.When he/it will have seen everything, it will tell its eye:
“This wound was a source to the beautiful mornings,
where many lives woke it of it between the shade and the sun up.”
And that led it astray that will tell its sense.
This and it will it be clever in its sob?
Is one already late or early for, without being there, to allow these words?