The colors of a pale morning

This evening, in the half-light of the distance the colors of a pale morning will fall asleep. Made fragrant in the patina of a painting drawn with the charcoal. Crossed by the gashes of branches scarifying the sky. Wrapping itself in one day the fugacious memory without trace. Leaving the cold and the silence of a river which in-is dozed. The heart of a turbid water to the movements will run which intertwine. In the dance of a devil to the multiple jokes. Gravity of the air, its odor, will carry the perfume of moisture. Who will extend before fall the veil one starlight night. The song of the birds will die out. Leaving the theater empties, the given up scene, death for guest. Crawling, corrosive, throbbing, turning in round. Like a wild beast in evil of food. The wild eyes, the dull hair, lends to tear. By hunger, desire, pleasure, throwing itself on the least grazing ground. Only, the incipient day will be able to drive out it. Of a rising feature of white color. This evening, in the half-light of the distance the colors of a pale morning will fall asleep. Made fragrant in the patina of a painting drawn with the charcoal. Where will mix the life, death.  Between the white and the black, calling the gray lament of a voice extirpating gold. From one day filled of torpor. Of a painted sky of dull colors. The small details of the day will be forgotten, the noises, the cries, the fear, the complaint, the last moaning. Insolate it silence of the vacuum will be essential then after ultimate shaking. Leaving bitter a cross to remember yesterday.