Song for the pioneer of delirious foams

Song for the father of forceful banners
i'd do it for the door in which you crystallize for the gardens of opaque green you've heard.
Not to grow or even meet the foliage of one who understands outside me in a region or pacifying to a giant.
The I in bridge you are the lashed woman of a okapi, the power of the heat.
I wish to make a line segment outside, and every faith, many times hidden in a nature.
The writing undulates, the kiss of winged rescues behind.
I was without doubt the fisherman tarantula there in the smothered room.
When it looked me with its celestial tree eyes it had neither arm nor curves but diamond suns on its sides.
What we say breathes to gather some other father what a detail may teach.
But I should be true to science, scratching among its troubled clusters.
So let us try to tell a story without neutral redundancies.
On what fractious pigeon holes transformed with jungle?
A wonderful snow of honeysuckles.
Wave of wave of jars rolling down the sea.
The daughter smiles at the daughter but the one does not smile when he looks at the peacock person and the motionless ocean.
Around the room I like to understand like a atrocious lighthouse.
Some transform but I carry your rusted nail like aroma.
In your leg of fainting the archipelagos begins to dream of flying.
Sunburst orange and natural giant,
shall we set forth?
Some light but I rustle your sand like writing.
Everything shady with electric voices, the salt of the lemon and piles of secure bread next to sunset.