On the colors of our twilight

The waves which shine in front of a disillusioned sky. The water which vibrates, shivers. Clouds twisting itself in jerked dance. The thunder which resounds. On the colors of our twilight. Black, blue, silver. Thus I had imagined it in capital colors. Front, after us to be separate. Imperceptibly, stretched by fate. Crumbled to forget itself. Scattered to fly away.  Kidnapped by this bad wind. Fraying to the rhythm of time. Carrying the accents tearing of a musical box. Where turns constantly. Pathetic. The ballerina of a crippled routine. Throbbing, anesthetic. That we crossed too much. At the point to adopt it. Without realizing that it separated us. Bringing drowsiness. The poison comforting to make seeming. Still to impassion themselves or to be filled with wonder. For futilities. Who finished wearying us. Pushing us to make the rocker. On the colors of our twilight. Black, blue, silver . Dark like the eyes of this dog. The only one which retains us by licking us the hand. A hyphen for almost nothing. The exhausted image of a made fragrant dream. One evening, one night on a sea with the colors of our tomb. The curtain which falls. In Front Of the barrier of time breaking the border. Our wars. Old, scraggy which so much made us boil. To fight themselves. For finally failing then to curse itself. Tinting the colors of our twilight. Black, blue, silver. Where it is impossible to make gleam. These bright reds of time when one liked.