Cervix Low And Soft Means

There are people who live for love,
are people who live to give,
are people who survive by leaving the herd to pass, go,
observing what is happening in their corner, not
mistrusting nothing, forgetting all the cracks initiated by fate ...

Why? For whom? until what? Hoping that?

Y has one somewhere who believe that everything will be fine, that everything
follow his path, they can surely
miss anything
while the train passes under their noses, their
what is beautiful hand
slowly but surely, to distant lands ...

mistrust? laziness? false hopes? false beliefs?

Y who are always thirsty, but they are given bread,
those who do not need a helping hand
believers follow the right path,
passing next to many things,
know what brings them out of their daily
yes! sometimes it's good to change his hum drum ...

ignorance? bad luck yes, surrender

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The best moment of my day

The best time of day
is when the sun rises
is when the air is so pure
breathtaking
the sea is so soft as to deceive the sailors

the morning is so quiet that
casts doubt on the existence of a certain kind
human

the best time of day
is when the sun goes down
when birds to flee their nests when
feared the arrival of the night
this is not your favorite moment, I know that especially
everything disappears eyelids grow heavy


minarets and sing the night covers the countries
to announce the end of a day spent early


the best time of day
is when I feel nothing when I forget
if it's fine or not well
is when your eyes me like a beautiful sailing
will
as the sun
is when your laughter erupts
stronger than the songs, the cries, the sounds of an awakening

copyright Mehdi Zribi

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spectactor pessimism

last night I was walking on a quay of the Seine, between dream and memory. Fate does not care for his heavenly seat of our troubles, these wounds that haunt, haunting. And I walked along the Seine somewhere deep in my memory, I imagine, and envisages the brown water. Often. Too.

My eyes are a gray sky. Their tears rain. My cheeks of the blocks, and my whole body tarnished. I have a heavy heart, I feel heavy, grave, spirit drive. The sensitive soul. Nerves open. Blood hot. And veins to live. What happened?

I passed by the wharf, when I confronted the horror, terror, one that kills before announcing the duel. The black vault beyond the vaporous masses, stones greasy, oozing their putrid cargo defections river, gulls extended, tired, my feet in the middle of Paris, everything radiated the strange sensation of a near wake. Oh nightmare! You who watches teeth, snapped in Cerberus hungry, itchy paw in front of your matador, let me! The border

cynical pessimism is thin and I have no strength to poke fun of the real evils, I sink every moment, every shot a little more in the doldrums. I sleep there, naked, cold and frigid on the banks of the Seine by repressive times. Red and purple are the sets of my melancholy, this bloody spectacle that I endorse in spite of myself, which I watch helplessly. When will it end there? God himself knows. Simply, I dreamed of a walk of a Parisian year, a dramatic deleterious, which I was author, actor and spectator. We're connected to ourselves ... And I am dying.

The pink tint then fades and rots.

Journal , Sebastian Asran Zala Charles