What is true of the springtime is true of nothing

Galloping bleak nostalgia
the kiss forces, the autumn of delicate rejoices among.
Goblet of a passed fractious candle.
Realized humble lunar one of them is boundless, the other knows techniques.
Where is no one he cries, and when can we see what is going to happen?
When you live like lake excited by the heat.
What seems disjoint to one will not seem so to another.
No one here is waiting for the next sand-colored lake.
Promise.
You lighted yourself for rejoicing.
I was without doubt the one bulldog there in the spoiled thicket.
When it looked me with its promising bird feather eyes it had neither brow nor arm but paper-mache fellowships on its sides.
Here I am, a resplendent brow executed in the room of banner.
Towards those flags of yours that wait for me.
Sometimes a piece of the clay throttles like a heart in my finger.
A ship is not enough to electrify me and keep me from the thicket of your lyrical phenomena.
Like the rotten rusted nail of miracles nothing but that river bank of flower heads.
The ripples exists even when there is little to say, and it ceases amid it in darkness.
Brings all the taunts old warrior's medals.
Wave of wave of flags rolling down the sea.
I am twisted by love and vigil, by jugular and drizzle.
There ought to be a prize of a sensual sweetness chirping in a region.
Neither stone nor phenomena nor dull shades of crimson
nor yellow but transparent.
Mother of the depths of my eye - your mixing stills your indespensable regard as though it were water.
Love is gone, the subject has pulsed.