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Alarga
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Time
The time is shrinking beneath the feet of tide,
I put up a wall against but it's too late to jump out.
Sand awaits its flow through the throat -to the truth-
but there is no space left at the bottom of the glass.
I'm riding a herd of ponies at a roundabout
and form a carousel that carry the coach towards the cease.
But I'm on the mend, it had been for time out of mind.
Well it doesn't end the seek for the guidance of thousands of stars...
I'm staring at the craved but I don't mind.
There was a gust of wind
but the flame did not flicker even the slightest bit.
I insist on that I will be mend
in two shakes of a dog's tail as I took the longer stick.
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But I'm on the mend, it had been for time out of mind.
Well, it doesn't end the seek for the guidance of thousands of stars...
I'm staring at the craved but I don't mind.
Mind the gap!
Feel free to use it as a notebook sheet,
which have been bought to fill lines about some
isotimic progress
that minds the death less than life, less than birth,
less than thoughts of a willow tree of the mend.
But I'm on the mend, it had been for time out of mind.
Well, it doesn't end the seek for the guidance of thousands of stars...
I'm staring at the craved but I don't mind.
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