The gods of the Faith left hand in hand, in some cases they did not recognize their gender or status, rather the divine and ineffable condition of the irredeemable Seventh Heaven, ad libitum of titania as a mental abstraction of pro-Olympic labyrinths, which have not born under the eaves of it. Spring was coming and winter was arrogant of all the rapes and abductions of the flowers that would not germinate, and that would go away because of the promiscuous sunset that was made of the dawn in some flowers, which did germinate on the defenseless edge. The converted Alexander the Great caressed the robe that he was looking at, more than the one the maiden wore, he looked towards his own chimp that did not make him defenseless of his gaze in the ability to transform into a Converted King, almost like a beautiful celestial lion after leave the libidinous gestures of Astarte as a foreign goddess and mother of the Levant, which made him doubt the rain that was refined as gregarious host in celibate women who tried in the outbursts of Alexander the Great, by removing the veil of darkness from Astarte, in cases of lost loves of the transcript Forest of Hylates, or in the awakening of the Apennines, when it was the trophy of a felid winged tetra in the chambers of the rampaging Bayard by Carlo Magno.

The rain bathed millennia that traveled from the boreal of Vóreios to the insane Argive spaces, in the Peloponnese where the first maiden hangs her braids sixteen times to forty times more, before all the brides who wake up in the hours that have not sworn eternal misogyny . The spring served the winter mead with sweet last vintage wine, from the valley of the plain of Sharon, both embraced by the Jamsin, squabbling in the sand that Zefian had hoarded before enchanted by the interval of Delphi. The north and south straddles dried the steely cobblestones of the dusty ground, where the Jamsin reverberates suffering for more than forty-six weeks, becoming light prey in the song of the three fountains of Life, the Castalia and the fountain of Arethusa. A solemn red stain was seen on the little sky that blinded the stalls that held the intramural walls of the wind tunnel, breathing on the Jamsin, turning it into murals of forced dust by channeling it and always levitating in the gushings, which shelled raindrops and sand in the disturbed electrical animations that made him possessed on the spiers, at the mere tone of liquid marble in the intertestamentals that already spoke of Hellenic modernity, but the barbarism of Ruah Qadim, banishing the spire of the east wind, for fifty days. The lights and festivities were seen to illuminate from the dreaded height when lowering the diminished light of the amplified candle, everything resembled in a dwelling where everyone was seated at a long table that had no end, in the center seven chandeliers, seven bread baskets, with a chalice. All gossiping with the Gensemani bees that did everything in their glosses and nectars that they celebrated in the palaces gleaming from the transit of the cheeks of San Juan and his Hexagonal. Raeder clung to the red and blue Gerakis with gold seams that spoke of dinner and oblation.