Описание книги
It is the breath of the memory of a great love that you gave in an infinite way. Yes, it was a wonderful journey through the years, through the days. Great was the moment without the last question of where to go and why.
Life goes into trains, in the counting of the trains you are having a hard time, especially when your heart is racing, when the love gives you more pain, that you lose your orientation and your sight and senses slip away and you are disturbed in the meantime.
What will come, you have guessed it, it takes your strength and pushes you to the ground, as if it were the forest, the young, to clear, which is only growing with its trunks, the thin with the delicate bark and the root branches that begin to grasp in a ground that looks friendly towards you.
It stays with you, the last breath, it's for you. My last eyelid will envelop you with the mantle of joy and longing. See that it is worn and has the patches of pain and loneliness on the sleeves.
What then can arise anew, that is something completely different, whose name nobody knows, and whose form from the unformed no one suspects and no one draws.
That's the way it is, and that's the way it will be: the idea is great and powerful, we can not stand against it, but we are carried far to it. It is a flight that does not stop after us.
Pull the splinter out of my breath and hold it tight, untie the fetter from your breath, so that we can breathe and taste some of the freedom in the lungs.
It is the mourner for the silent, the once brave and happy helper, the friend of the children and the elderly. He will miss us on the fields of crops and crops, on the squares and streets of simple life.
Now the language lies perfected or unfinished in the gone-away, as if it sleeps for eternity in silence with the good heart, who now silently carries the past into the future and no longer thinks of returning to earth. It is imaginable that the friend of the children and the elderly watches out of the space of great freedom for what the people down here are trying to understand and often contradict each other.
Life goes into trains, in the counting of the trains you are having a hard time, especially when your heart is racing, when the love gives you more pain, that you lose your orientation and your sight and senses slip away and you are disturbed in the meantime.
What will come, you have guessed it, it takes your strength and pushes you to the ground, as if it were the forest, the young, to clear, which is only growing with its trunks, the thin with the delicate bark and the root branches that begin to grasp in a ground that looks friendly towards you.
It stays with you, the last breath, it's for you. My last eyelid will envelop you with the mantle of joy and longing. See that it is worn and has the patches of pain and loneliness on the sleeves.
What then can arise anew, that is something completely different, whose name nobody knows, and whose form from the unformed no one suspects and no one draws.
That's the way it is, and that's the way it will be: the idea is great and powerful, we can not stand against it, but we are carried far to it. It is a flight that does not stop after us.
Pull the splinter out of my breath and hold it tight, untie the fetter from your breath, so that we can breathe and taste some of the freedom in the lungs.
It is the mourner for the silent, the once brave and happy helper, the friend of the children and the elderly. He will miss us on the fields of crops and crops, on the squares and streets of simple life.
Now the language lies perfected or unfinished in the gone-away, as if it sleeps for eternity in silence with the good heart, who now silently carries the past into the future and no longer thinks of returning to earth. It is imaginable that the friend of the children and the elderly watches out of the space of great freedom for what the people down here are trying to understand and often contradict each other.