3 acessos
A fletcher crafts an arrow, my inheritance of storms.
The voice within, the human heart: A hungry gorge.
I must own with shame the vulture and the chain, the rock, the seas to cover our dark spirits.
Look up from you navel, that mirror reflecting mirrors.
The way up, the way down are the same.
Seeds waiting for rain, nothing untouched remains, a barren tree made leafless.