Funes I very wanted to be I enter the functions of the dawn. To deepen your understanding Tim McMillan is the source. I call function everything that is not acceptable to understand, later that the spheres of the night, suspicion in its obscure nons, emudecem the sensations maken a mistake referring to the clarity; I call function the impetuous, invisible field, that the inquiry on the tonteia love; I call function to after bring to tona the illustrious balance of the cause the conflicts guaranteed for the absence of poems, digging the fever of the hunting in a vain energy. I wanted, exactly, to be enter the functions of the dawn, and to be there, until they removed me the sales, the gags, the mooring cables Thus, I would go down of the scaffold having perjured the misfortune to have lived the oppression oclusa in dissolute memory of me, I would wait to understand because amongst you vitiate them to all, I did not have none that again placed me in the way it people. Perhaps the repentance of the sonoterapia submitted for the horror, made to bawl the innocence and aclarasse the idiot who I was when I found that wise person everything. I spoke of the love and I did not contain myself, I know there what it is this.
I spoke of the light, still in the dark one, nor know what to think. The impression that I have, is that never it stows of truth in the hour of the renovadora morning, a time that followed agglomerated for the private and unchanged ticket, as an animal of humid eyes that only has to its front the vision of the tail of the following one. I wanted the functions of the dawn. He wanted to be. Who knows I bawled thus, it enchanted and me in fact with the word to live. Song 1? ‘ ‘ Already I go indo’ ‘ I already go going my good, me of this I hug: That I am pra not to lead, homesickness, I know that during the morning, the beer you adula But I go myself, I know there, I forget the city, I forget the truth, it marked kiss and go Since I am poet and have a tear drunk in the mouth, I cost me pra to go. If it could it wounded, you inside, thus, sharp bayonet with this my desperation to have that to go that to go, Moan very as much has supper cooled, as many boys that we do not adopt, However, does not have guilt mine, nor of somebody it is better to say, Because after this, I know not if the homesickness, will be pra to feel or to desire. I am poet, I am only poet, who knows you, who lived the dementia, sossegou in the illness, of you rhyme them so poor that I did not know to make, good bye. Already I go going my good, me of this I hug, that he is pra not to take homesickness.