This is a sonnet. It's the first poem of death's nose that I translated. The landscape. I had dreams of dreams. I still love, but love is no more than a bouquet of lila and roses, looking for their perfect forest where a flame was placed on its feet. I had dreams of dreams, I still love, but love is no more than a bouquet of lila and roses, roses, roses, roses, he luminates the god of the grandfather. It's the silencer that is in fire under my foot in the night, the moccocain lexicon of the world, the cum on the sea in the sky that clouds. To come, everything comes rigid and light, the boulevard without name and the strings of his name. I feel king with the landscape. The countryside. I dreamed of loving. Still I love, but now, love is no more that rose and lila spray, whose perfume filled the woods where each pathway led on directly to the blazing glow. I dreamed of loving. Still I love, but now loves not that storm whose lightning kindled high towers unhaused, unhinged, and fleetingly would set the parting of the waves a glow. Love is the flint my footsteps sparks at night. The word no lexicon can render right, foam of the sea, the cloud across the sky. Old age makes all things fixed and luminous, knots are unraveled, streets anonymous, set in our ways the countryside and I. Yes. Well, how long have you been talking about old age? What's old age?