| Message | A Melody "Who'll give me back my musings and the shadow that left after you? Ah, these days like animals' murmur, like plants are they - ever younger. And before long - such little ones, on a nutshell standing, we'll sail against the seasons as if to spite water rings. The red of blood will be dreamt childishly as puffed-out cheeks of a cherry. The metal of storms will be discovered again through a foamy blow-ball's head. While the thunder of tears like an avalanche of stones into little green beetles will change, thus bending down to the water by turns we'll incautiously sail to oblivion; left behind by us on earth only our shadows shall cry". |