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Horses never cried, not even at the time they were tied.

I am a Circus at night with colored bright Neon Light, in the Rain.

The dark is quite and prophane.

A blanket over everything which used to strain.

And the Bed of Nails is now a Throne of Gold.

A story outrolled on a Frame.

It holds a picture of a dirty bud, sprouted out of nothing and blood and picked by a blindfold eagle. A Forecaster on a steeple.

The Holy Night is a plaster, in which Believers of an unrestraint Religion are transforming perpetual in the Kitchen.

The Tabula Rasa is framed by relicts.

A philanthrop predicts the reinkarnation of an rational apokalypse.

Horses cried out of Love, as they broke out.

Salvation

Rain during the drought.

Or is it more Creation, as a form of Releam?

A Dream keeps on trying to paint the colorful picture of Forgiving.

As Pigeons keep on living.

An halo of the Present is worn in assesent by the Past.

The Answer is glassed within an yes sure.

Love is the only cure.

The Moth is holy by Forgiving

The Martyrer is holy by Loving

As the Giver is holy by Giving

We are Holy by Living and Beliving

And we were leaving into the Night, as we are Leaning to the sky. And sometimes a Priest walks by. They call it a professing blessing.

And Pigeons in the color of Carnation and Edelweiß are kept in Paradise.

A sacrifice in the Martyrdom of beauty in Life.