I look at your tender and delicate swan hand: While humiliating and carrying loads, the delicate tiny cam-cathedrals tremble, bowing like diligent bow nerves! Your flexible and fragile fingers were broken as a patient killer by loneliness and weakness!

Caressing, babysitting mother's hand: Oh! If only for a moment, but how many times would I have leaned on the hilly ***** of your lap to make it like your blatant child, your blessed artificial hand, to fall asleep with a caress! You had a intoxicating touch, a magical, soothing miracle!

Curious and whimsical fingertips, which if you were tense and blushed the rose-redness surprised how would you respond now? Proudly, with no self-giving, or with a blessed giving as a possible reparation for having walked your own way and for leaving your unfortunate, molasses boy in a pickle?

When I look out for the perforated, aggastyan mountain hermits of the distant Bird Mountain, they interrogate like diligent investigators for whom the given evidence is not enough! I should **** a glorious photo of your memory in myself, forget it here! Alas! The bitter heart is so hard



which clings to the captivity of dreams! Even the falling trees are cleaning up, getting ready for the eternity of winter! The fine mist, as a colonizing settler, settles slowly and for a long time, building a nest on the hill.

Past and present are now stepping in at the same time, and can’t the countdown to existence allow for one last, fatal encounter before our fleeting meat vault becomes a feast for underground rodents? "I kept watching your hard-working, brave, and willful hand — like someone who had suddenly forgotten something and was now researching and watching more and more boldly" to keep his priceless treasure with him…