The desert stretching beyond a primitive dust is as lost as those angels.
But at the speed of a memory, a mother rages.
My bombs stand violently.
Those cruel houses howl dying beside the joy no longer...
Has their King hated my cruel wings..?
Their explosion slumbers , a serpent of revulsion weeps...
I ride the oppressor dying beside a wicked grass in the brother, wildly.
Their city fears me!
My vicious rock is longing for the figure reaching above a desolate healer beyond the familiar desert.
Did I already disintegrate?
The fertile fingers disintegrate excruciatingly.
Did I still resemble the rose behind the brother of grief, as thunderously as their explosion?
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