The sleeping beauty

To run in wet grasses. Under the rain, under hail through wood and of the forests. Skinned legs. Burned hands. By the cold of the winter come from the mountains, plains of so far from where breath wind. To Run without breathing. Just to suffocate. At the top of tops, the beating heart. The face whipped by the frozen air. To plunge in the valleys. Under the rain, hail. Without anything to see with the only hope. To reach the grids of the castle of beautiful. With dormant wood. That. About which one speaks in the tales and the novels. That. Whose kiss will awake the deadened body. To run in wet grasses. For better feeling the slow rise of the desire. To damn itself with the lips. The beautiful dormant one. To tear off waiting at times. With having the fever of it. To bite itself to blood. To see it opening the eyes. Waxy dye. To fall in love. Of its brittleness. Of its strangeness. To have slept hundred years. Expecting me. To run in wet grasses. Under the rain, under hail through wood and of the forests. Skinned legs. Burned hands. By the cold of the winter come from the mountains, plains of so far from where breath wind. To be only without princess to save. To like. To steal a history to the tales, the novels. In endorsing. To run without breathing. Just to suffocate. At the top of tops, the beating heart. Knowing. That there is only one truth. That of frozen grids waiting to me in front of a sorry castle.