A foul lid has kept the cups dirtier in the memories of yesterday's hunt.
We grab a blade of grass, taking a pile of sand in our bowler.
At the gate of daring, today falls in a plate with the bloodiest swing of battle in the island of slamming doors.
The wave follows the clock at our heels, waiting in vain for exodus, the holy belfry comes, here we are thousand times quicksanding in the poor oaring of wooden arms.
Yet we gaze at Zion, the X rays of sweet orchids, the face of recompense to the little feathers in our wings. When you can't beat Thomas de Torquemada, The Dominican monk that led the Spanish inquisition the spoils of the Vatican sit. Man you don't need to wait for the gods of Persia like Gilgamesh whose lost leaves no virgin to her lover, Neither the warrior's daughter nor the wife of the noble. The exit is coming but only wish the feast is served in bigger plates on bigger table. God be with you my brother as your penance paved the golden gate and streets of heaven. In an age of machine with the 101 Universal computer code. Do page me soonest my brother from the other side. Matthew 5:7-48. Watsapp 09099176956