remained in the sand:

and it looked at me from its age:

Neither clown nor child nor black

and envy your plumed pride.

Penguin, static traveler,

it had neither arms nor wings

theread.9９csｗ•com fisherman at the astronaunt,

and through its form was visible

the reasons for my respect

nor white but verticle

and from the disorderly ocean

dressed in night and snow:

as if a vein from the bitter sea

the age of moving water,

since then I know I do not exist;

deliberate priest of the cold,

the immaculate passenger

but the child child does not smile

there in the cold archipelagoes

and a questioning innocence

it was as old as the salt;

burｅａｄ•９９csw.cｏｍt hard little oars

the religious bird

emerges in snowy mourning.

The mother smiles at the sailor,

did not need to sing,

had been broken.

when it looked at me with its eyes,

when he looks ｈttpｓ://reaｄ•９９cｓw•cｏｍat the bird child,

I salute your vertical salt

its wild soul bled salt:

I was without doubt the child bird

I am a worm in the sand.

on its sides:

with its ancient ocean eyes:

did not need to fly,