The water which falls, a nocturnal air deposits its secrets, the assassins of old autumn. The smell of colors ran dry, to walk down the stairs slowly. Always restlessly arriving, the widows sunk into the den of the earth. It knows not what to answer, of these broken things, it must not speak of memories that have passed each other. The rope which is woven by oblivion and tears, everything falls into its hands, which it raises, into the midst of the rain.
Remixed words and lines from Pablo Neruda
Image by: Alina Shevelina