From Lower Normandy Marie came barefoot, still, Agios Andreas but this time to be reborn in Coutances with everyone embraced and revived by reconstituting Saint-Sauver Lendelin. From here in this parish similar to the electromagnetic ubiquity of the Beit Hamikdash, all walking girt only for a few leagues in the transit of conversion and silence that was only interrupted by the shutters on the coast of the islet. Her humble appearance of a farmer from the meadows of Carentan, cheered her healing hands that would add another servant without letters and numbers that represent the wisdom of a holy woman, who loved her neighbor, going back from the Porta de Betania to revive with the return. of his blessed drizzle of holy water from the stigma of the Lord. It illustrated their faculties by presenting them in a new beneficent world free of transpersonal, rather it was linked to the guarantee of extremes and their evil debaucheries that would abound in humanity now and always, showing mercy that made any living being confuse by being in the middle of the heavenly sprinkles of holy waters. The fields of salvation for the lacerated ranged from extremes, and points that babbled to the Olympian gods, giving them the abandonment for some time the apostasy that raged their disgraceful powers, Ignoring the subjectivity of ancient poverty with the young woman who was from the same roots inherited from archaeological substrates, which did not allow it to find its roots, redirecting what the pilgrims do not know that illumination takes without return and that great works were the participle of a verb that would never be reborn again. That the examples touched the bottom of the ionic crowded with icons that were left infertile there because they could not dive into polluted waters. That the Sirens shrunk in the salt of Aphrodite, not being able to temporize in the indecision to grant them plenipotentiary powers to make man a being with gills in the tender flesh, and of the great works that save the man who prostrates himself anointed from his defects in not granting themselves extraordinary early days, with directions to save themselves from the catastrophe and sinister ones that speak of the same thing; of the Man who breathes and does not make an effort to breathe, so that when at the end he is boiled in the apnea of ​​his stubbornness, he can make sure that he needs clean and pure air, to see millions of kilometers in his three hundred and sixty degrees, and also can that sub mythology makes of mythology; seeing in millions of lustrums without ending more lines that support it, nor who closes the doors to you from a first second or third degree of evolution of itself, renouncing other points of those like Marie de Vallées and Bernardette de
de Soubirous the visible particularity of the good of doing his Will. The Lord instructed them for herself from childhood as it is led to the Lapse, The earth, and The Universe decreasing chronologically so that she would be Logos of Christian Virtues. That what was accomplished will certainly be accomplished even though they suffer pain from the wars on their backs, and lead them to the most adorably perplexed fidelity of God.

Marie Des Vallées speaks to everyone: “I Kyrié Mou, oh my Lord, I am your medium and the grace to do it in what makes it available in a few minutes to stay alive! I am your obstacle so that you do not disenfranchise me from the Horror Vacui ..., disturbing the emptiness that puts bands on my idle eyes by validating and embellishing more your work and its mathematical fools, in the dense wastelands that lie in the static of the ship that can never help to Prometheus! Or the late morning that the martyrdom of Good Friday changed to rescue you! Oh, what ostentatious luxury is argued by the evergreen of your olive, lanceolate in some like sacred stingers and green glabrous, which stand multi-floral and become scaly by my arid and fatal mouth. What a wave of the myrtle will be thrown by the wild olive that is ignored like the thistle! or that a black hawthorn for a thousand years will be flashing the iris of my paternal sets, like bushy palms in soft and hard mothers, like the sawdust of man's discernment, whose rusticity becomes sensitive in what he lived, and does not live in Bethany! Except for the one who is just in the hands of death and who receives a mastic or seedling that closes the lips of the frozen morning. Just as in the tripled auroras where the pomegranates will continue to find the apse with Ruthwell's cross "