By where to start?

There is with far this repetition throbbing from the beat of time. Against the carcass of an engraved bell which is not wearied. To be struck, reasoning of agreements distorted the settee of the years. It there with far, the complaint of a call which sounds, resounds. This absence of reaction which astonishes. Just slashed of the flash of a storm which thunders. There is with far these clouds crumbling on the peak from the horizon. Erasing, red the one day old blood which dies. There is around us the rustle of the wind. Carrying us, whirling. In a dance without reference mark. The insane head, light legs. On a sand of seaside. Wet feet. Waves stretched to yawn about it. In a languorous torpor. You and me, only with our fears. Not to know at what time. For us the bell of time Will Sound. There is with far, the murmur of the wind. Carrying. Jerked blows. Of a disproportionate echo. Giants striking the course of the years violently. Wrinkles stretching itself. On our tired faces. Marked by the spray of a life where the tears dug the furrows of these feelings. Who today live us. Nourishing the direction of our passion. With for single reason refusing the projection of time. Who gets busy to separate us. There is with far this small voice. Who speaks to us. With you. With me. To dispatch us, to tighten us, to love us. Us statement these words which conceal our secrecies. And quickly to start.