METROPOLITAN
From the indigo straits to Ossian's seas, on pink and orange sands washed by the vinous sky, crystal boulevards have just risen and crossed, immediately occupied by poor young families who get their food at the greengrocers'. Nothing rich. The city! From the bituminous desert, in headlong
flight with the sheets of fog spread in frightful bands across the sky, that bends,
recedes, descends, formed by the most sinister black smoke that Ocean in mourning can
produce, flee helmets, wheels, boats, rumps. The battle! Roads bordered by walls and iron fences that with difficulty hold back their groves, and frightful flowers probably called loves and doves, Damask damning langourously, possessions of magic aristocracies ultra-Rhenish, Japanese, Guaranian, still qualified to receive ancestral music and there are inns that now never open anymore,-- there are princesses, and if you are not too overwhelmed, the study of the stars the sky. The morning when with Her you struggled among the glitterings of snow, those green lips, those glaciers, black banners and blue beams, and the purple perfumes of the polar sun. Your strength. |
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