¿Qué incoherente mente balbucea en silente contraste un inconstante e inclemente irrespeto por aquel movimiento fulctuante de arte y sueño?
¿Que grandiosismo sin paroxismo, palabreo lleno de verborrea hace que tumultuosa chifla se discurra por vanidosa locura?
¿Qué cinismo cual disparate, soltar una rienda, atar un mecate, romper cadenas y sellar trastes, para caer en cuenta que nada es importante?
¡Que tentadora impaciencia para ir al rescate de aquello que ni interesa ni beneficia a nadie! ¿Qué tormenta caería en medio de tal empresa?
¡Que novedad ver la nobleza pasear en carruaje citrino, mientras el leñador en el bosque lucha por su destino!...
Azaroso destello, merodeador tal minino, mercachifle de marasmos, talego del buen armiño, cuibas engalanadas, pedacitos de aliño...
...y la hogareña señora adorna su mesa con delicias que cocina, aquella soñadora que camina y despabila, ensalza e ilumina sus hortalizas...
...frutos y rosales que despampanantes hacen obnubilar al trovador andante, que lamenta no tener un horizonte lleno de tan inspiradoras ruecas...
...la damisela andadora que pasea sus novillas, los tristes cánticos del impúber que juguetea con su canino...
...y se van las horas, animales despavoridos, vaporosos ruedos de trajes desteñidos, nidos entre árboles que marcaron tiempo perdido.
¿Qué habría de entre cuentos sino un labrador de tañidos, con tintes y agujas al norte, sigilosos ruidos de toques, cortes y torques?
¿Qué superaría la estela que deja el ave al alzar su vuelo por el cielo lleno de gotas multicolores cayendo sobre tus delicados brotes de voluminosos productos de tierra y riego, entrega y riesgo, sublime recoleta y abismo?
What incoherent babbles mind in a silent contrast inconstant and inclement disrespectful of that movement in art and turning dream?
What grandiosity without pinnacle, full of verbiage wordyness makes tumultuous nuts are hard vain folly?
What cynicism that nonsense, drop a rein, tie a rope, break frets and seal strings, to avoid anything that is important?
That impatience tempting to go to the rescue of what anyone is interested in nor no one else needs or benefit! What would storm in such a company?
Let see the new nobility citrine carriage's ride, while the woodcutter in the forest fight for their destiny!...
Random flash, this prowler pussycat, merchant of marasmus, duffle good ermine, decorated Cuiba, bits of salad dressing...
...and the lady at home decorating your table with delicious cooking, and walking one dreamer awake, magnifies and illuminates your vegetables...
...fruits and roses that astonishing bedazzlement to make an errant poetician, who has no horizon filled with a spinning wheel so inspiring...
...the running damsel walking her heifers, the sad songs of the pre-pubescent that joggle with your dog...
...and are the hours, scared animals, vapors bullrings faded costumes, nests from trees that have lost time.
What would be a harvester but among stories of timbers with needles and dyes to the north, secretive sounds of taps, cuts and torques?
What beyond the wake left by the bird to lift its flight through the sky filled with multicolored drops fall on your delicate shoots of bulky goods land and irrigated tights, and delivery risk, and sublime crops in the abyss?
What grandiosity without pinnacle, full of verbiage wordyness makes tumultuous nuts are hard vain folly?
What cynicism that nonsense, drop a rein, tie a rope, break frets and seal strings, to avoid anything that is important?
That impatience tempting to go to the rescue of what anyone is interested in nor no one else needs or benefit! What would storm in such a company?
Let see the new nobility citrine carriage's ride, while the woodcutter in the forest fight for their destiny!...
Random flash, this prowler pussycat, merchant of marasmus, duffle good ermine, decorated Cuiba, bits of salad dressing...
...and the lady at home decorating your table with delicious cooking, and walking one dreamer awake, magnifies and illuminates your vegetables...
...fruits and roses that astonishing bedazzlement to make an errant poetician, who has no horizon filled with a spinning wheel so inspiring...
...the running damsel walking her heifers, the sad songs of the pre-pubescent that joggle with your dog...
...and are the hours, scared animals, vapors bullrings faded costumes, nests from trees that have lost time.
What would be a harvester but among stories of timbers with needles and dyes to the north, secretive sounds of taps, cuts and torques?
What beyond the wake left by the bird to lift its flight through the sky filled with multicolored drops fall on your delicate shoots of bulky goods land and irrigated tights, and delivery risk, and sublime crops in the abyss?
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