MIRO pasar las nubes sobre el cerro,

MIRO spend the clouds above the Hill, threadbare with only feel the arrebol in the womb, gathering later in a color of squid, without fear of drift that bears do not know where.All the clouds conclude at night. That more Sun supported during the day sometimes teaches her brand of bonfire. It is a brief and modest, glow in the dark. All other Bogen obedient, anonymous, and colorless.Poor clouds, grass looks and flows. Finally, they alone in the sky with nothing.The drunks in the interior of the Okay is tottering and recover the pulse to the rapier to the ball in billiards. Does in the screen of the TV, women move the body and mouth, hair as if were some ciertos.¿Es life?Nightly them are clouds.
All eyes. Lifetime.Boats close to the stowage at Port Moresby, ships with the Red tacks, oxidized to give sight is Salaam, ships without anybody to Board and pure cargo from the skyscrapers of Hong Kong. Boats sometimes returning from the wreck as the Flash of westeros surprised cloud. Boats with waves floods and brave in the keel, as if the seas continue spinning.
My neighbours below, Poles, speak with Cracovia.En one of these rotations of the earth you terminate the string. You go to what he ansiaste, when that less that has never existed.
You'll like the clouds that Miss without light at night, ships in the detailed sea.
Jose Carlos Cataño