Monday, February 14, 2011

Milena Velba Bulletin

leaves those dense trees swaying to the rhythm of the breeze. She whispers in my ear, gives me something to remember, I described the undulating silhouette perfect on the old cobbled street. The oranges are still green threaten me with that might not be to see them mature. What if this is the last time I look from this window?
The breeze becomes a wind and the trees played music my moonless night. Begin to fall one by one, shy and quiet, the first drops of dawn. It rains, it rains again in this window. And it was the last time I hear the drops hitting this ceiling? What if it's the last night of train horns in a hurry and stun?

leaves yellow glow under the lamp now, shake, clean. I can only watch them try This rain also clean this room a little. What if there is nothing in the morning and it's over?
I do not want daylight. I could not even think about it. I do not feel cold. I do not want. What if these were the last steps I give up?
I have so much fear. Not survive. What if it was my last night?


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