We are still here, hoping for other trees lost in the snow. A hope for other mountains wrapped in white clothes of the era.
We are still here watching from above countries, to feel the Ciauri fireplaces, hot and tasty to drink cups of coffee mornings hypothetical.
We are still here to drink from overflowing spring snow to quench our thirst to what nature gives us.
We are still here to write metaphysical dissonance, to hear the sound of cold wind in the trees, to enjoy the infinite.
We are still here hoping for more guided the Lady, to dream the undesirable, to desire the unfathomable nature of surprise.
We are still here wanting to relive nights and flakes of light, night lights dim, nights of stars hidden by clouds of snow, night's silence that makes noise.
We are still here, to look down our lives, to dwell on the eternal beauty of our surroundings, to enjoy the sunlight filtering through clouds of mischievous lopsided.
We are still here, watching the wonder of a snow park between sunbathing and light, to smell the wonder of morning impossible to sink your feet in soft snow at last, nodding to Order of Heaven.
We are still here, looking at the benches where we would lie in summer under the blows of the impetuous south wind, amid the stench of the fires, the hot gusts, to the despair that followed the bloody African wind, and those benches are white.
We are still here to walk in the silent gorges, to feed on wood.
We are still here to hear the sound campanein among the flakes, hushed atmosphere of a February morning.
We are still here, to return with the memory of what it was, the night when nature has made love with our sites native.
Here we are, still incredulous ritornodella for our beloved Queen, elusive but rewarding.
One name will always be printed in me under the sun or between the flakes, with the south wind rushing or days of calm in any circumstance at any stagione.MIRTO.
We are still here watching from above countries, to feel the Ciauri fireplaces, hot and tasty to drink cups of coffee mornings hypothetical.
We are still here to drink from overflowing spring snow to quench our thirst to what nature gives us.
We are still here to write metaphysical dissonance, to hear the sound of cold wind in the trees, to enjoy the infinite.
We are still here hoping for more guided the Lady, to dream the undesirable, to desire the unfathomable nature of surprise.
We are still here wanting to relive nights and flakes of light, night lights dim, nights of stars hidden by clouds of snow, night's silence that makes noise.
We are still here, to look down our lives, to dwell on the eternal beauty of our surroundings, to enjoy the sunlight filtering through clouds of mischievous lopsided.
We are still here, watching the wonder of a snow park between sunbathing and light, to smell the wonder of morning impossible to sink your feet in soft snow at last, nodding to Order of Heaven.
We are still here, looking at the benches where we would lie in summer under the blows of the impetuous south wind, amid the stench of the fires, the hot gusts, to the despair that followed the bloody African wind, and those benches are white.
We are still here to walk in the silent gorges, to feed on wood.
We are still here to hear the sound campanein among the flakes, hushed atmosphere of a February morning.
We are still here, to return with the memory of what it was, the night when nature has made love with our sites native.
Here we are, still incredulous ritornodella for our beloved Queen, elusive but rewarding.
One name will always be printed in me under the sun or between the flakes, with the south wind rushing or days of calm in any circumstance at any stagione.MIRTO.
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