The Spring and the birds change me and major shifts of sound, and the earth by thrusts of its plains. On the verge of wounding myself and hearing myself, now that I'm full of sprouts quiet eyelids, When I have my time of birth in which the temporal bones descend, when I name myself, silent, and someone I'm not already remembers me, weeping and bleeding at half height over what is stopped exposed and then restored... In this Spring with birds and glory someone crying for help in a crowded boat.

Now I remember...
Door of young stones.
Boats how can not...
Hundred's of people cannot swim,
Drown in the Mediterranean sea,
Fear,
Someone want to earn on others...
Disaster.
No one can help
No one will help
Someone dead.
Does it matter...
Do we care?