cut through the misty dream

p5kyz416

( Editor : sammy)
TAG Tags: sleep cycle of the humble old

moonset, PASSING, passed away flowers , flower non ,

Red Sweet Dreams , flourishing the lovely fireworks ,

drunk for a thousand years , who blurred between the pupil of the eye drop Qinglei ,

cinnabar point eyebrow , Iraqis haggard ,

pipa Yin ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], open string further away the deep ,

fantasy world blank and the mountains and streams, the wind rose ,

stirring up the dust the wind sway , proudly planted it under the blue flames of the monument ,

how many princes confidante of the king 's dream ,

Miao Miao voiceless in the deep annihilation of discrete time Asleep at the permanent ,

the mind is a ,

any that fleeting images and elegiac as the most beautiful embellishment ,

tranquil life of regret ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych],

That fall any time derived from the long core and endless sorrow ,

misty rain started falling , a hundred thousand turn back ,

Yilou listen to the rain tears , weeping song who ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych],

lonely whose lives for the better end of fragmented ,

picture under the mingling of cavalry horses gradually schungite ,

that birthright of tranquility amongst not only the ashes of love ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych],

in the war of So humble in the chaos of turmoil , but so humble ,

quietly close my eyes ,

dream and the dream of any aftertaste Dianran thousand years that the story of the ancient and mysterious end ,

if reincarnation ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], Dieyi When Flying ?

clear I heard the sound of moaning ,

cut through the misty dream, the lovely Phantom millennium ,

only way is how many cups of hard liquor ,

tear ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], I, sad ... ...

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

The driver clambered into his seat, clicked his tongue, and we went downhill. The brake squeaked horribly from time to time. At the foot he eased off the noisy mechanism and said, turning half round on his box--
"We shall see some more of them by-and-by."
"More idiots? How many of them are there, then?" I asked.
"There's four of them--children of a farmer near Ploumar here. . . . The parents are dead now," he added, after a while. "The grandmother lives on the farm. In the daytime they knock about on this road, and they come home at dusk along with the cattle. . . . It's a good farm."
We saw the other two: a boy and a girl, as the driver said. They were dressed exactly alike, in shapeless garments with petticoat-like skirts. The imperfect thing that lived within them moved those beings to howl at us from the top of the bank, where they sprawled amongst the tough stalks of furze. Their cropped black heads stuck out from the bright yellow wall of countless small blossoms. The faces were purple with the strain of yelling; the voices sounded blank and cracked like a mechanical imitation of old people's voices; and suddenly ceased when we turned into a lane.
I saw them many times in my wandering about the country. They lived on that road, drifting along its length here and there, according to the inexplicable impulses of their monstrous darkness. They were an offence to the sunshine, a reproach to empty heaven, a blight on the concentrated and purposeful vigour of the wild landscape. In time the story of their parents shaped itself before me out of the listless answers to my questions, out of the indifferent words heard in wayside inns or on the very road those idiots haunted. Some of it was told by an emaciated and sceptical old fellow with a tremendous whip, while we trudged together over the sands by the side of a two-wheeled cart loaded with dripping seaweed. Then at other times other people confirmed and completed the story: till it stood at last before me, a tale formidable and simple, as they always are, those disclosures of obscure trials endured by ignorant hearts.