"Yes, but who will cure us of fire deaf ..." And who will cure us of fire in the morning, and the silences that vanish as halos of snuff. Who know understand that a hand is more sublime than the very simplicity of a hand, and with warmth continues to line the lips spelled out (silently). And who knew by heart the routine of day and night, it saves us from the rain that chases the furniture and the rooms empty. The rain that wet us and makes us not believe us eternal and immortal. That time is more than grains of sand, and the smile is as necessary as a cup of coffee in the morning. It just might be every minute a thrill to achieve your look a look of mine, and fall, so volatile in the sense that it does not matter any more, and they all said. Who knows if these steps and this back and these eyes can be cured with the dawn, stammering and embracing a new day to come, with few intentions and too utopian. Who will heal the sun that enters through the cracks, no other reason than to illuminate the little air and make visible the dust that I have not heard. And know what your feet, back, and cheeks of that heat going up the back to make it look like figurine back and repeated many many cheeks wet with rain (seven thousand autumns have been born in a moment), with a fire to save us, a sweet assurance and tenderness.
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