Night anxiety

The trip towards the seas of east is a distance, that only the prayers bloom blasphemy, but the immense thing the whipping is towards me as swan in a marsh, the false blue nocturne of inquirida Bohemian lifestyle.

Inside my melancholy only I ask, that my sleep should flood with violins, that greets that the sun dies, would be my sublime sleep that it smooths the night, that the following day acclaims a fragrant hope to roses fresh air.

That is of doing for the life interior torture, the conscience, humanizing what I am, the horro begins not with the fear but towards the inevitable thing that I go, there turns a brutal nightmare suspended in the gap of an external sleep, it is a rare tuning but this infinite feeling and alone crying will stop when the lion wakes up of his exile.