A dark and stormy night, a walker took refuge in some inn at the foot of a mountain range, it hosted a black girl big eyes covered and urgent spoke dreams. In doing so, He bared his heart to tuck the soul, the, grateful, cooed with are words. Walker departed in the morning carrying nostalgia girl and a coat of passion, Girl big coat and black eyes stared longingly of poems and an imprint on the soul. Walker fulfilled his destiny of walking paths, It is housed in few hostelries you were hospital, He sailed in stormy stories, He landed on the shores of distant girls, they gave necklaces of words and always split: girl wistfully. Walker hopes cultivated in northern seas, He swam loves in southern oceans, He staunched wounds in green valleys, undertook exploits in snowy mountains, He was carried away by soft breezes and sought, in warm hosterías, persistent rain shelter Souvenirs. A cold, clear night Walker discovered that the path is circular and the radius of your being may be greater than the diameter of the world. I then stopped at some inn at the foot of a mountain range, He wrapped the crackle of firewood at home, ragweed drank in heat and bared his heart to tuck the soul to a black girl and big eyes covered, she, thankful, he cooed with are words.
(Gathered at a summit of nostalgia)