Red Land
The smell of blood and this
red sky, nothing will be more like before… I remind me, my first flights…. Such a feather I went, of down in high, look for the altitude and the blue sky cold. The clouds breathed, I climbed, I climbed, my brain was empty and all became... – You have of fire – The outside in was full! I know, but appearly we, we aren’t outside.. That tell, what answer? I kept the silence and I watched her. If beautiful, a scraf grey pass around his neck., this young smile. This eyes bright. Insolente to more high degre... This is deserve of the indignation or of the admiration. Insensitive to the horror and to the pain of other, she think only that have inahalate his smoke. And me, who was I for permiss me to judge her ? The night refused to install. Such a monarch who refuse his crown, she was leaved the land. The west covered the misery, and that wasn’t more a mystery for nobody. Happily, a man and the women groups have being saved, the animals too... We was prisonners of one sort arch of Noé. We laughing a little, only the
mood of day don’t give the rage of live and again less of smile. It’s was sufficient de see suffer, eard the shout issue of inferno of the town, and his tree in fire. The nature offered his spectacle and don’t rested insensitive but dumb before this
light who cover the horizon. The carmine effect
eating his deeply instinc, concentrate this messages of my genes, this bites of hate. During more of two hours, I noted my helplessness, the useless side that I cultivated of birth, this incompetence to help. I envied the detachment of this young girl, in August. Motionless, she breathed the health, the joy read on his face, his eyes had the color of rain, and a strange grey pink lighted my worries. If only I had it known before, before the massacre, before this dreadful cyclones who whirl, tear the sky and you remove all hope of existence, before the winds which you take off all feeling of peace, will not be that the inside peace. But how live to front of that, front to himself ? Too of
dead... The waves of dead who tormented my mood and pull out all illusion to word love... My thingking was red, of shame, and I stay back of wall, completly re-light by this
desire of paint the massacre. On the range of my ache, my pencil covered of all the declension of this color ; the ochre of the land wasn’t more that a remember ; the poppy, them started in travel. All started in smoke, except the desire of painting, only desire who prevent me of hang me. Eh, yes, He eating me my soul. If adventure someone exit me of this table, I became nasty same a vermilion donkey and I made fear.
More reviews about the Red Land