Young flowers and trees grow as the Secada, great of sound and depth compares to you...how could any one of us write this sound?
That penetrating sound of no static, no white noise, and that of only a wild forest, tropical grove awaiting the heavy May rains.
Turquoise browed Motmot's call, most certainly, might be that of our goddess of love, and her sutra's of attraction and desire. Those ruling the cosmic-comic drama relating to our underground existence, appearing in ridiculous showings of law, pushing for Death of wrongs, mirroring our cries.
Who has to really die?
The sainted Sun has to die for a bit every year so that the semilla (seed) of her majesty Nature can go within her-elf to impregnate the whole globe drawn above to Creation with her hips, the Great One--Tree sways.
