Innocently they settle on the greenery which last year the merciless caterpillars stripped down to sadness so it should give them the wings for this year's beauty. But now it gives you the right to flee fiercely as if seized by madness, and let no one ask what's happened to your good sense. And I no longer dream of the spring in the forest. From an unknown age you bring before us a woman in black. The healing pulse of your voice unbinds our souls' beauty and the devil of black despair is beaten swiftly down, his gambit doomed his fifes are caught up in the spell of rich old wine.
New rebellions are in the waters.
Inside our veins, the ache, the sweet address of old hills, the epiphany of sound is within us. They will never die, never, these syllables of time. It's not that they didn't know what to do with that spot or that there wasn't any money left for that small patch, or that a quarrel had arisen about the orthodoxy of the painting. It was something that kills the god in man, but was not recorded by our impoverished ancestors. The little church remained as it was then.