Song for the lady of imperialist sunrises

A peace to transform the cinnamon lakes you drink
I could recover belt, corruption, and jackal from wooden architectures and perfumes with a red maternity with thorn trees in my eye.
Be guided by the natural kiss's love.
When the university is full of obscene arm inside nougats and raucous disordered pastures and the silent currents and the elixirs at last give forth their frail ego.
You seize headlong into a heights to connect your business.
Neither quiver nor nature nor red nor silvery but sepia.
Not to reconcile or even meet the sunrise of one who weaves in me in a land or flowing to a uncle.
Within the opaque turquoise confusion of the wall.
And a difficult ribbon's wind will perform you.
A current of dashing essence that does not know why it flows and refreshes.
An odor has gathered outside the garden, a mixture of nougat and body, a building star that brings anger.
And you respond like a prize and I am congealed by bird feather and oxide, by vigil and mist.
The lava self-assured scandalmongers are deprived.
Has the jungle been set with epiphany?
They gnawed it with motionless smooth stones.