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Volume 3: A blow of destiny, the king appears Chapter 65: They created my wild heart

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    My sweetheart, after the celery and the trough, the little leopard of yarn and onions, I love to see your miniature empire sparkle: your weapons are wax, wine, oil,

    Garlic, the soil opened for your hands, the blue substance that ignites in your hands, the ability to transfer dreams into salads, the snake coiled in the garden hose.  />

    You, with the sickle that stirs up fragrance, you, with the soap bubbles that give orders, you climb my crazy ladders and stairs.  You control the character of my handwriting and find in the sand of my notebook those lost syllables that seek your lips.

    Your house sounds like a train at noon: the bees buzz, the pots sing, the waterfall catalogs the drizzle, and your laughter spins the trill of the palm trees.

    The blue light on the wall talks to the rocks, it comes whistling like a shepherd delivering a telegram; between two fig trees, with a green voice, Homer quietly climbs the hill in his sandals.

    Only here the city can be silent and carefree, there is no eternity, no sonatas, lips, or car horns; only the dialogue between the waterfall and the lion,

    And you - walking up and down stairs, singing, running, bending, planting, sewing, cooking, hammering, writing, returning home, or you are gone - and I know winter is coming.

    The silence is green, the light is moist, June trembles like a butterfly, and you, Mathilde, are in the southern realm, coming from the sea and the rocks, crossing the noon.

    You brought a boat full of iron-containing flowers and seaweed that had been tortured and abandoned by the south wind, but your hands, which are still white and cracked by salt corrosion, harvested grains of sand.

    I love your pure gifts, your skin as intact as stone, the sun-drenched gift of your fingers: your nails, your mouth full of joy.

    But, for my house next to the abyss.  Give me the system of distressing silence, the pavilion of the sea forgotten in the sand.

    I am looking for traces of you in everything, in the turbulent river of women, in your braids, in your shy lowered eyes, in your light footsteps gliding through the foam.

    ¡°I suddenly felt like I could recognize your nails¡ªoblong, nimble, cherry nieces; and your hair as I passed by, and I thought I saw the image of your bonfire burning in the water.

    I searched and searched.  But no one has your rhythm, your light, the black clay you brought back from the forest; no one has your tiny ears.

    You are complete and concise, everything about you is self-contained, and I will drift forward with you like this.  Falling in love with a broad Mississippi River that flows to the ocean of women.

    Don¡¯t go too far, not even for one day, because, because, I don¡¯t know how to say it, one day is very long and I will always wait for you.  It's like guarding an empty station, sleeping soundly when the train stops somewhere else.

    Don¡¯t leave me, not even for an hour, because then all the pain in your heart will emerge.  The smoke of wandering around looking for home will drift into my body and strangle my confused heart.

    Ah, may your silhouette never be lost on the beach, ah.  May your eyelids never flutter into the void: never leave me even for a minute, dearest.  Because in that moment, you have gone so far, and I will wander around the world in confusion, asking: Will you come back?  Are you going to leave me here dying?

    I want to look back at you among the branches.  Gradually you become the fruit, rising effortlessly from your roots, singing the syllables of your sap.

    Here you will first become a fragrant flower, transformed into a statue of a kiss, until the sun and the earth, the blood and the sky, grant you joy and sweetness.

    I will recognize your hair among the branches, your mature image among the leaves, the image that brings the petals closer to my thirst, and my mouth will be filled with the taste of you that rises from the earth and carries you with it.  , blood, the kiss of the blood of the lover's fruit.

    Two happy lovers form a piece of bread, a drop of moonlight in the grass; when walking, they leave two shadows flowing together, and when they wake up, they leave a sun empty on the bed.

    Of all truths, they chose the day: they held it, not with ropes, but with fragrance, they did not tear peace, they did not shatter words.  Their happiness is a transparent tower.

    Air and wine accompany lovers, the night delights them with the petals of joy, and they have the right to all the carnations.

    "Two happy lovers have no end and no death. They are born, they die, and they repeat themselves many times in their lifetime. They are endless like nature.

    Kodabosi said your laughter fell like a falcon flying down from a stone tower.  Indeed, you split the branches of the world with a flash of lightning, O daughter of the sky:

    It falls, thundering: the tongue of dewdrops, the water of diamonds, the light and its bees dance.  And where the Silent Beards lived, the grenades of the sun and starsExploded, the sky fell, taking with it the shadowy night, bells and carnations shone in the light of the full moon, and the saddler's horses galloped wildly.  Because you are so small, let it fall, let the meteor of your laughter fly, electrify the names of all things in nature.

    Your laughter belongs to a tree split by lightning, a silvery thunderbolt falling from the sky, ripping the top off, cutting the tree in two with a sword.

    "The laughter like yours that I love is only born in the leaves and snow of the highlands. It is the laughter of the wind released at such a height. The habits of the South American cedar, the person I love most.

    My mountain woman, my clear Zhilan volcano, use the knives in your laughter to slash the shadows, slash the honey of night, morning, and noon:

    Birds among the leaves will jump in the air, when your laughter is like a luxurious light, penetrating through the tree of life.

    Here are the bread, the wine, the table, the shelter: for men, for women, and the necessities of life: here the swirling stream of peace comes to rest, and the flame of the Republic kindles this light.

    Praise for your hands - the quick cooking of songs and the clean results of the kitchen; Praise for the integrity of your flying feet, ah, long live the ballerina dancing with a broom.

    Those rough rivers with their watery menace, those pavilions of painful foam, those burning hives and reefs: are now transformed into this rest, your blood in my blood, this midnight starry and blue  The river bed, this endless and simple tenderness.

    With an absolute party, with the glorious reason of the righteous noon and the bright devil, we finally arrived here, alone, but not lonely, far away from the ravings of the barbaric city.

    Just as the pure lines trace out the dove, just as the flame imparts its nutrients to the tranquility, you and I also create this heavenly ending.  Reason and love live together naked in this house.

    Wild dreams, rivers of bitter necessity, decisions more lasting than dreams of hammers flow into the cups of lovers, until the two things are balanced in the scales: reason and love, like a pair  wing.  The essence of transparency is thus created.

    "Amidst the iron sword of literature, I am wandering around like a sailor in a foreign country, not familiar with those street corners. I just sing, because I sing, because if not for this, why?

    From the stormy archipelago I brought my windy accordion, the crazy waves of the rain, the usual soothing nature of all things: they created my wild heart.

    So when the sharp teeth of literature suddenly bite my honest heel, I walk without hesitation, singing in the wind, towards the rainy shipyard of my childhood, towards the cool forests of the vaguely defined south, towards my heart filled with  A place of your fragrance.

    Those who tried to hurt me hurt you, and the secret poison that should have been inflicted on me passed like a net through my work and left rust marks and sleeplessness on you.

    ¡°My love, I don¡¯t want the hatred that hurts me to obscure the blooming moonlight on your forehead.  I do not want distant, forgotten sorrow to throw its useless crown of swords into your dreams.

    Vicious footsteps follow me, I laugh, hideous grimaces imitate my face, I sing, jealousy curses me with gnashed teeth.

    And that is, my love, the shadow that life has given me: a set of empty clothes, chasing me limpingly, like a scarecrow with a bloody smile.

    My life is dyed purple with such abundant love that I turn around in panic like a blindfolded bird until I reach your window, my friend: you hear the murmur of a broken heart.
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