Page 18
It is my tactic. It is not safe. Sometimes it does not emerge from the fog. Sometimes it dissipates during the Monte.
But it happens that the rope leads us just above the fog. It stops at this time. We put a foot on the fog to test its solidity. And then the other foot. What a pleasure and well-being we feel at this time.
The Cozy walk on the FOG is worth all the therapies of the world. Illusions Marthe was lifting this early morning; having nothing wanted to change its habits, it was lowered barefoot in the kitchen, a shawl on the shoulders. It tisonnait the fire to do leave when the Coq was set to sing, the sun was just beginning to turn on of pale yellow the crests of the southern slope of the mountain. Has the smell of soup of the eve mingled with that of the coffee that Marthe warmer on the corner of the furnace and that of the apparel of stone that hung to the door mantle. A smell of wood, earth, sweat and cold ash... The tic-tac of the grandfather clock, égrenait the seconds and the thoughts of the woman who, elbows posed on the table, watched the day rise, drinking mechanically a few sips of coffee in a bowl of sandstone blue. This year the Gods have forgotten the men. The earth is a crevasse clods Compact, of regular cubes to deep furrows as the hand. If hair that the SOC, in the beginning, exudes a color ash cinnabar. The grains of dust valsant in the vortices of the gust lead the more solid at the madness. In turn, they enter into trance, whirling dervishes for eternity. More a single root to nibble or then buried so deep that it cannot be the extract both the soil is callous. It must resign themselves to forget the feast, any shrunken that was this manna. Scratch, scrape even up to the blood of nails torn from the force to believe. On the surface, only have resisted a few grass yellowed, curved, withered, hesitant even to extend for always. A rudiment of pride that the fact, they also, sway in the wind hot. The buffalo are dead. One morning, they refused the yoke, stretching on the flank to never raise. A depletion in the antipodes of the laziness. Those people had never known the rest. Pulling, walking of their not of convict, digging to feed the village, without never balk. The hunger and thirst have had because of their beautiful endurance and the glossy leather which shone at the zenith. In the past. The sun burns the shoulders seasoned of former and cracked the young copper skins. Children with swollen bellies of nothing, when they are still in life, no longer have the force of play. They observe their eyes chassieux where to amass the flies, their father become unfit to stand. Infants die in the arms of their mother unable to pay the slightest tear which could spray the earth. All sources are dried up. Even love would come to miss. Before this show, Aba laments more than the other. To him, the Chief of the village if fort, if courageous, is powerless to rescue its people, those who have always believed in him. It requested the spirits of the Ancestors, begged the shaman, mixing dances and mélopées, but neither the one nor the other has managed to make the gods weep to irrigate the land. To revive the wild torrent which fed the men. When women are washed the linen by singing and children if éclaboussaient in the Rainbow droplets of crystal. The cascade is first become laughs. Then scattered puddles. It is today a gap of clay without the slightest trace of moisture. The ruthless Sun continues to darder its rays of fire in a sky arrogant d'Azur. An ocean of blue to give the vertigo. The hornbills are silent, their Yellow plume of gold does not seduced more person. But the most sad is the watch off Kouly, extended on the Mat variegated. Dragonfly if menue and if frail. His wife, his love. A heart shaped face, eyelids rimmed with feathers and a smile to spread happiness as we dispersed seeds, the days of harvest, to stave off the fate. That next year will be flourishing. The oval of the face is emaciated, sharpening the os of the cheekbones parched, ready to crack. The breasts are round and full crack in during sadly. The smile of the young woman has fled with the ultimate drop of water, when Kouly has understood.
Aba also has understood. The rounding of the belly of his wife the taunted, criticizes mute. The head of the tribe, the husband of Kouly has worn his last net of saliva to moisturize the lips of his beloved but today its mouth is parched if he cannot murmurings his love. The love he has for his wife and son in that it puts all its heart to hatching. Aba remembers. The marriage had been the most beautiful of the region. In the village there had prevailed during three days and three nights of dances, songs and Ripaille. Of initiation rites also for adolescents become men. In his throbbing of tam-tams mingled the cries in the entire valley. Aba and Kouly were proud then. Ready to lead the Tribe toward a future fruitful. Build a family and offer a young leader to succeed ABA. Later. The shame added to the disappointed hopes overwhelms the young man. To rehash its regret, only at the bedside of Kouly, he is deaf to the agitation of the outside. The cries of the former and the laughter of children welcome. The thunder clap also, powerful, released from the bowels of the earth. Women, in alignment to each other, are already moving beyond the jars to harvest the precious nectar. The sky color slate is streaked with stripes of diamond, the wind has turned, tearing shamelessly pickets and was, décoiffant the homes of stubble. The air is so dense that men distinguished to sentence the shadows, to the exception of lightning that flood the faces of astonishment and joy. Ancestral fear and happiness to be in life. The hornbills smooth again their Yellow plume dusted. Aba appears on the trail. The prelude to the rain curtain on the point of slaughter, the first hot drop crashed on his skull. An anointing, a hymn to life. It then hears a cry ripping the darkness. At this time he does not know if it is of Kouly or of his son. This evening, The gods are returned to the village. Since his early childhood, Alexis agitated at the time where the car is committed to the left, in this place where the sign indicates "Bay of Giannaki, 3.5 km". It is my tactic. It is not safe. Sometimes it does not emerge from the fog. Sometimes it dissipates during the Monte. But it happens that the rope leads us just above the fog. It stops at this time. We put a foot on the fog to test its solidity. And then the other foot. What a pleasure and well-being we feel at this time. The Cozy walk on the FOG is worth all the therapies of the world. Illusions Marthe was lifting this early morning; having nothing wanted to change its habits, it was lowered barefoot in the kitchen, a shawl on the shoulders. It tisonnait the fire to do leave when the Coq was set to sing, the sun was just beginning to turn on of pale yellow the crests of the southern slope of the mountain. Has the smell of soup of the eve mingled with that of the coffee that Marthe warmer on the corner of the furnace and that of the apparel of stone that hung to the door mantle. A smell of wood, earth, sweat and cold ash... The tic-tac of the grandfather clock, égrenait the seconds and the thoughts of the woman who, elbows posed on the table, watched the day rise, drinking mechanically a few sips of coffee in a bowl of sandstone blue. This year the Gods have forgotten the men.
The earth is a crevasse clods Compact, of regular cubes to deep furrows as the hand. If hair that the SOC, in the beginning, exudes a color ash cinnabar. The grains of dust valsant in the vortices of the gust lead the more solid at the madness. In turn, they enter into trance, whirling dervishes for eternity. More a single root to nibble or then buried so deep that it cannot be the extract both the soil is callous. It must resign themselves to forget the feast, any shrunken that was this manna. Scratch, scrape even up to the blood of nails torn from the force to believe. On the surface, only have resisted a few grass yellowed, curved, withered, hesitant even to extend for always. A rudiment of pride that the fact, they also, sway in the wind hot. The buffalo are dead. One morning, they refused the yoke, stretching on the flank to never raise. A depletion in the antipodes of the laziness. Those people had never known the rest. Pulling, walking of their not of convict, digging to feed the village, without never balk. The hunger and thirst have had because of their beautiful endurance and the glossy leather which shone at the zenith. In the past.
The sun burns the shoulders seasoned of former and cracked the young copper skins. Children with swollen bellies of nothing, when they are still in life, no longer have the force of play. They observe their eyes chassieux where to amass the flies, their father become unfit to stand. Infants die in the arms of their mother unable to pay the slightest tear which could spray the earth. All sources are dried up. Even love would come to miss. Before this show, Aba laments more than the other. To him, the Chief of the village if fort, if courageous, is powerless to rescue its people, those who have always believed in him. It requested the spirits of the Ancestors, begged the shaman, mixing dances and mélopées, but neither the one nor the other has managed to make the gods weep to irrigate the land. To revive the wild torrent which fed the men. When women are washed the linen by singing and children if éclaboussaient in the Rainbow droplets of crystal. The cascade is first become laughs. Then scattered puddles. It is today a gap of clay without the slightest trace of moisture. The ruthless Sun continues to darder its rays of fire in a sky arrogant d'Azur. An ocean of blue to give the vertigo. The hornbills are silent, their Yellow plume of gold does not seduced more person. But the most sad is the watch off Kouly, extended on the Mat variegated. Dragonfly if menue and if frail. His wife, his love. A heart shaped face, eyelids rimmed with feathers and a smile to spread happiness as we dispersed seeds, the days of harvest, to stave off the fate. That next year will be flourishing. The oval of the face is emaciated, sharpening the os of the cheekbones parched, ready to crack. The breasts are round and full crack in during sadly. The smile of the young woman has fled with the ultimate drop of water, when Kouly has understood.
Aba also has understood. The rounding of the belly of his wife the taunted, criticizes mute. The head of the tribe, the husband of Kouly has worn his last net of saliva to moisturize the lips of his beloved but today its mouth is parched if he cannot murmurings his love. The love he has for his wife and son in that it puts all its heart to hatching. Aba remembers. The marriage had been the most beautiful of the region. In the village there had prevailed during three days and three nights of dances, songs and Ripaille. Of initiation rites also for adolescents become men. In his throbbing of tam-tams mingled the cries in the entire valley.
Aba and Kouly were proud then. Ready to lead the Tribe toward a future fruitful. Build a family and offer a young leader to succeed ABA. Later. The shame added to the disappointed hopes overwhelms the young man. To rehash its regret, only at the bedside of Kouly, he is deaf to the agitation of the outside. The cries of the former and the laughter of children welcome. The thunder clap also, powerful, released from the bowels of the earth. Women, in alignment to each other, are already moving beyond the jars to harvest the precious nectar. The sky color slate is streaked with stripes of diamond, the wind has turned, tearing shamelessly pickets and was, décoiffant the homes of stubble. The air is so dense that men distinguished to sentence the shadows, to the exception of lightning that flood the faces of astonishment and joy. Ancestral fear and happiness to be in life. The hornbills smooth again their Yellow plume dusted.
Aba appears on the trail. The prelude to the rain curtain on the point of slaughter, the first hot drop crashed on his skull. An anointing, a hymn to life. It then hears a cry ripping the darkness. At this time he does not know if it is of Kouly or of his son. This evening, The gods are returned to the village. Since his early childhood, Alexis agitated at the time where the car is committed to the left, in this place where the sign indicates "Bay of Giannaki, 3.5 km". It is my tactic. It is not safe. Sometimes it does not emerge from the fog. Sometimes it dissipates during the Monte. But it happens that the rope leads us just above the fog. It stops at this time. We put a foot on the fog to test its solidity. And then the other foot. What a pleasure and well-being we feel at this time. The Cozy walk on the FOG is worth all the therapies of the world. Illusions Marthe was lifting this early morning; having nothing wanted to change its habits, it was lowered barefoot in the kitchen, a shawl on the shoulders. It tisonnait the fire to do leave when the Coq was set to sing, the sun was just beginning to turn on of pale yellow the crests of the southern slope of the mountain. Has the smell of soup of the eve mingled with that of the coffee that Marthe warmer on the corner of the furnace and that of the apparel of stone that hung to the door mantle. A smell of wood, earth, sweat and cold ash... The tic-tac of the grandfather clock, égrenait the seconds and the thoughts of the woman who, elbows posed on the table, watched the day rise, drinking mechanically a few sips of coffee in a bowl of sandstone blue. This year the Gods have forgotten the men. The earth is a crevasse clods Compact, of regular cubes to deep furrows as the hand. If hair that the SOC, in the beginning, exudes a color ash cinnabar. The grains of dust valsant in the vortices of the gust lead the more solid at the madness. In turn, they enter into trance, whirling dervishes for eternity. More a single root to nibble or then buried so deep that it cannot be the extract both the soil is callous. It must resign themselves to forget the feast, any shrunken that was this manna. Scratch, scrape even up to the blood of nails torn from the force to believe. On the surface, only have resisted a few grass yellowed, curved, withered, hesitant even to extend for always. A rudiment of pride that the fact, they also, sway in the wind hot. The buffalo are dead. One morning, they refused the yoke, stretching on the flank to never raise. A depletion in the antipodes of the laziness. Those people had never known the rest. Pulling, walking of their not of convict, digging to feed the village, without never balk. The hunger and thirst have had because of their beautiful endurance and the glossy leather which shone at the zenith. In the past.
The sun burns the shoulders seasoned of former and cracked the young copper skins. Children with swollen bellies of nothing, when they are still in life, no longer have the force of play. They observe their eyes chassieux where to amass the flies, their father become unfit to stand. Infants die in the arms of their mother unable to pay the slightest tear which could spray the earth. All sources are dried up. Even love would come to miss. Before this show, Aba laments more than the other. To him, the Chief of the village if fort, if courageous, is powerless to rescue its people, those who have always believed in him. It requested the spirits of the Ancestors, begged the shaman, mixing dances and mélopées, but neither the one nor the other has managed to make the gods weep to irrigate the land. To revive the wild torrent which fed the men. When women are washed the linen by singing and children if éclaboussaient in the Rainbow droplets of crystal.
The cascade is first become laughs. Then scattered puddles. It is today a gap of clay without the slightest trace of moisture. The ruthless Sun continues to darder its rays of fire in a sky arrogant d'Azur. An ocean of blue to give the vertigo. The hornbills are silent, their Yellow plume of gold does not seduced more person. But the most sad is the watch off Kouly, extended on the Mat variegated. Dragonfly if menue and if frail. His wife, his love. A heart shaped face, eyelids rimmed with feathers and a smile to spread happiness as we dispersed seeds, the days of harvest, to stave off the fate. That next year will be flourishing. The oval of the face is emaciated, sharpening the os of the cheekbones parched, ready to crack. The breasts are round and full crack in during sadly. The smile of the young woman has fled with the ultimate drop of water, when Kouly has understood. Aba also has understood. The rounding of the belly of his wife the taunted, criticizes mute. The head of the tribe, the husband of Kouly has worn his last net of saliva to moisturize the lips of his beloved but today its mouth is parched if he cannot murmurings his love. The love he has for his wife and son in that it puts all its heart to hatching. Aba remembers. The marriage had been the most beautiful of the region. In the village there had prevailed during three days and three nights of dances, songs and Ripaille. Of initiation rites also for adolescents become men. In his throbbing of tam-tams mingled the cries in the entire valley. Aba and Kouly were proud then. Ready to lead the Tribe toward a future fruitful. Build a family and offer a young leader to succeed ABA. Later. The shame added to the disappointed hopes overwhelms the young man.
To rehash its regret, only at the bedside of Kouly, he is deaf to the agitation of the outside. The cries of the former and the laughter of children welcome. The thunder clap also, powerful, released from the bowels of the earth. Women, in alignment to each other, are already moving beyond the jars to harvest the precious nectar. The sky color slate is streaked with stripes of diamond, the wind has turned, tearing shamelessly pickets and was, décoiffant the homes of stubble. The air is so dense that men distinguished to sentence the shadows, to the exception of lightning that flood the faces of astonishment and joy. Ancestral fear and happiness to be in life. The hornbills smooth again their Yellow plume dusted.
Aba appears on the trail. The prelude to the rain curtain on the point of slaughter, the first hot drop crashed on his skull. An anointing, a hymn to life. It then hears a cry ripping the darkness. At this time he does not know if it is of Kouly or of his son. This evening, The gods are returned to the village. Since his early childhood, Alexis agitated at the time where the car is committed to the left, in this place where the sign indicates "Bay of Giannaki, 3.5 km". It is my tactic. It is not safe. Sometimes it does not emerge from the fog. Sometimes it dissipates during the Monte. But it happens that the rope leads us just above the fog. It stops at this time. We put a foot on the fog to test its solidity. And then the other foot. What a pleasure and well-being we feel at this time. The Cozy walk on the FOG is worth all the therapies of the world. Illusions Marthe was lifting this early morning; having nothing wanted to change its habits, it was lowered barefoot in the kitchen, a shawl on the shoulders. It tisonnait the fire to do leave when the Coq was set to sing, the sun was just beginning to turn on of pale yellow the crests of the southern slope of the mountain. Has the smell of soup of the eve mingled with that of the coffee that Marthe warmer on the corner of the furnace and that of the apparel of stone that hung to the door mantle. A smell of wood, earth, sweat and cold ash... The tic-tac of the grandfather clock, égrenait the seconds and the thoughts of the woman who, elbows posed on the table, watched the day rise, drinking mechanically a few sips of coffee in a bowl of sandstone blue. This year the Gods have forgotten the men. The earth is a crevasse clods Compact, of regular cubes to deep furrows as the hand. If hair that the SOC, in the beginning, exudes a color ash cinnabar. The grains of dust valsant in the vortices of the gust lead the more solid at the madness. In turn, they enter into trance, whirling dervishes for eternity. More a single root to nibble or then buried so deep that it cannot be the extract both the soil is callous. It must resign themselves to forget the feast, any shrunken that was this manna. Scratch, scrape even up to the blood of nails torn from the force to believe.
On the surface, only have resisted a few grass yellowed, curved, withered, hesitant even to extend for always. A rudiment of pride that the fact, they also, sway in the wind hot. The buffalo are dead. One morning, they refused the yoke, stretching on the flank to never raise. A depletion in the antipodes of the laziness. Those people had never known the rest. Pulling, walking of their not of convict, digging to feed the village, without never balk. The hunger and thirst have had because of their beautiful endurance and the glossy leather which shone at the zenith. In the past.
The sun burns the shoulders seasoned of former and cracked the young copper skins. Children with swollen bellies of nothing, when they are still in life, no longer have the force of play. They observe their eyes chassieux where to amass the flies, their father become unfit to stand. Infants die in the arms of their mother unable to pay the slightest tear which could spray the earth. All sources are dried up. Even love would come to miss. Before this show, Aba laments more than the other. To him, the Chief of the village if fort, if courageous, is powerless to rescue its people, those who have always believed in him. It requested the spirits of the Ancestors, begged the shaman, mixing dances and mélopées, but neither the one nor the other has managed to make the gods weep to irrigate the land. To revive the wild torrent which fed the men. When women are washed the linen by singing and children if éclaboussaient in the Rainbow droplets of crystal. The cascade is first become laughs. Then scattered puddles. It is today a gap of clay without the slightest trace of moisture. The ruthless Sun continues to darder its rays of fire in a sky arrogant d'Azur. An ocean of blue to give the vertigo. The hornbills are silent, their Yellow plume of gold does not seduced more person. But the most sad is the watch off Kouly, extended on the Mat variegated. Dragonfly if menue and if frail. His wife, his love. A heart shaped face, eyelids rimmed with feathers and a smile to spread happiness as we dispersed seeds, the days of harvest, to stave off the fate. That next year will be flourishing. The oval of the face is emaciated, sharpening the os of the cheekbones parched, ready to crack. The breasts are round and full crack in during sadly. The smile of the young woman has fled with the ultimate drop of water, when Kouly has understood. Aba also has understood. The rounding of the belly of his wife the taunted, criticizes mute. The head of the tribe, the husband of Kouly has worn his last net of saliva to moisturize the lips of his beloved but today its mouth is parched if he cannot murmurings his love. The love he has for his wife and son in that it puts all its heart to hatching. Aba remembers. The marriage had been the most beautiful of the region. In the village there had prevailed during three days and three nights of dances, songs and Ripaille. Of initiation rites also for adolescents become men. In his throbbing of tam-tams mingled the cries in the entire valley.
Aba and Kouly were proud then. Ready to lead the Tribe toward a future fruitful. Build a family and offer a young leader to succeed ABA. Later. The shame added to the disappointed hopes overwhelms the young man. To rehash its regret, only at the bedside of Kouly, he is deaf to the agitation of the outside. The cries of the former and the laughter of children welcome. The thunder clap also, powerful, released from the bowels of the earth. Women, in alignment to each other, are already moving beyond the jars to harvest the precious nectar. The sky color slate is streaked with stripes of diamond, the wind has turned, tearing shamelessly pickets and was, décoiffant the homes of stubble. The air is so dense that men distinguished to sentence the shadows, to the exception of lightning that flood the faces of astonishment and joy. Ancestral fear and happiness to be in life. The hornbills smooth again their Yellow plume dusted.
Aba appears on the trail. The prelude to the rain curtain on the point of slaughter, the first hot drop crashed on his skull. An anointing, a hymn to life. It then hears a cry ripping the darkness. At this time he does not know if it is of Kouly or of his son. This evening, The gods are returned to the village. Since his early childhood, Alexis agitated at the time where the car is committed to the left, in this place where the sign indicates "Bay of Giannaki, 3.5 km". It is my tactic. It is not safe. Sometimes it does not emerge from the fog. Sometimes it dissipates during the Monte. But it happens that the rope leads us just above the fog. It stops at this time. We put a foot on the fog to test its solidity. And then the other foot. What a pleasure and well-being we feel at this time. The Cozy walk on the FOG is worth all the therapies of the world. Illusions Marthe was lifting this early morning; having nothing wanted to change its habits, it was lowered barefoot in the kitchen, a shawl on the shoulders. It tisonnait the fire to do leave when the Coq was set to sing, the sun was just beginning to turn on of pale yellow the crests of the southern slope of the mountain. Has the smell of soup of the eve mingled with that of the coffee that Marthe warmer on the corner of the furnace and that of the apparel of stone that hung to the door mantle. A smell of wood, earth, sweat and cold ash... The tic-tac of the grandfather clock, égrenait the seconds and the thoughts of the woman who, elbows posed on the table, watched the day rise, drinking mechanically a few sips of coffee in a bowl of sandstone blue. This year the Gods have forgotten the men. The earth is a crevasse clods Compact, of regular cubes to deep furrows as the hand. If hair that the SOC, in the beginning, exudes a color ash cinnabar. The grains of dust valsant in the vortices of the gust lead the more solid at the madness. In turn, they enter into trance, whirling dervishes for eternity. More a single root to nibble or then buried so deep that it cannot be the extract both the soil is callous. It must resign themselves to forget the feast, any shrunken that was this manna. Scratch, scrape even up to the blood of nails torn from the force to believe. On the surface, only have resisted a few grass yellowed, curved, withered, hesitant even to extend for always. A rudiment of pride that the fact, they also, sway in the wind hot. The buffalo are dead. One morning, they refused the yoke, stretching on the flank to never raise. A depletion in the antipodes of the laziness. Those people had never known the rest. Pulling, walking of their not of convict, digging to feed the village, without never balk. The hunger and thirst have had because of their beautiful endurance and the glossy leather which shone at the zenith. In the past. The sun burns the shoulders seasoned of former and cracked the young copper skins. Children with swollen bellies of nothing, when they are still in life, no longer have the force of play. They observe their eyes chassieux where to amass the flies, their father become unfit to stand. Infants die in the arms of their mother unable to pay the slightest tear which could spray the earth. All sources are dried up. Even love would come to miss. Before this show, Aba laments more than the other. To him, the Chief of the village if fort, if courageous, is powerless to rescue its people, those who have always believed in him. It requested the spirits of the Ancestors, begged the shaman, mixing dances and mélopées, but neither the one nor the other has managed to make the gods weep to irrigate the land. To revive the wild torrent which fed the men. When women are washed the linen by singing and children if éclaboussaient in the Rainbow droplets of crystal. The cascade is first become laughs. Then scattered puddles. It is today a gap of clay without the slightest trace of moisture.
The ruthless Sun continues to darder its rays of fire in a sky arrogant d'Azur. An ocean of blue to give the vertigo. The hornbills are silent, their Yellow plume of gold does not seduced more person. But the most sad is the watch off Kouly, extended on the Mat variegated. Dragonfly if menue and if frail. His wife, his love. A heart shaped face, eyelids rimmed with feathers and a smile to spread happiness as we dispersed seeds, the days of harvest, to stave off the fate. That next year will be flourishing. The oval of the face is emaciated, sharpening the os of the cheekbones parched, ready to crack. The breasts are round and full crack in during sadly. The smile of the young woman has fled with the ultimate drop of water, when Kouly has understood.
Aba also has understood. The rounding of the belly of his wife the taunted, criticizes mute. The head of the tribe, the husband of Kouly has worn his last net of saliva to moisturize the lips of his beloved but today its mouth is parched if he cannot murmurings his love. The love he has for his wife and son in that it puts all its heart to hatching. Aba remembers. The marriage had been the most beautiful of the region. In the village there had prevailed during three days and three nights of dances, songs and Ripaille. Of initiation rites also for adolescents become men. In his throbbing of tam-tams mingled the cries in the entire valley. Aba and Kouly were proud then. Ready to lead the Tribe toward a future fruitful. Build a family and offer a young leader to succeed ABA. Later. The shame added to the disappointed hopes overwhelms the young man. To rehash its regret, only at the bedside of Kouly, he is deaf to the agitation of the outside. The cries of the former and the laughter of children welcome. The thunder clap also, powerful, released from the bowels of the earth. Women, in alignment to each other, are already moving beyond the jars to harvest the precious nectar. The sky color slate is streaked with stripes of diamond, the wind has turned, tearing shamelessly pickets and was, décoiffant the homes of stubble. The air is so dense that men distinguished to sentence the shadows, to the exception of lightning that flood the faces of astonishment and joy. Ancestral fear and happiness to be in life. The hornbills smooth again their Yellow plume dusted. Aba appears on the trail. The prelude to the rain curtain on the point of slaughter, the first hot drop crashed on his skull. An anointing, a hymn to life. It then hears a cry ripping the darkness. At this time he does not know if it is of Kouly or of his son. This evening, The gods are returned to the village. Since his early childhood, Alexis agitated at the time where the car is committed to the left, in this place where the sign indicates "Bay of Giannaki, 3.5 km".
The Cozy walk on the FOG is worth all the therapies of the world. Illusions Marthe was lifting this early morning; having nothing wanted to change its habits, it was lowered barefoot in the kitchen, a shawl on the shoulders. It tisonnait the fire to do leave when the Coq was set to sing, the sun was just beginning to turn on of pale yellow the crests of the southern slope of the mountain. Has the smell of soup of the eve mingled with that of the coffee that Marthe warmer on the corner of the furnace and that of the apparel of stone that hung to the door mantle. A smell of wood, earth, sweat and cold ash... The tic-tac of the grandfather clock, égrenait the seconds and the thoughts of the woman who, elbows posed on the table, watched the day rise, drinking mechanically a few sips of coffee in a bowl of sandstone blue. This year the Gods have forgotten the men. The earth is a crevasse clods Compact, of regular cubes to deep furrows as the hand. If hair that the SOC, in the beginning, exudes a color ash cinnabar. The grains of dust valsant in the vortices of the gust lead the more solid at the madness. In turn, they enter into trance, whirling dervishes for eternity. More a single root to nibble or then buried so deep that it cannot be the extract both the soil is callous. It must resign themselves to forget the feast, any shrunken that was this manna. Scratch, scrape even up to the blood of nails torn from the force to believe. On the surface, only have resisted a few grass yellowed, curved, withered, hesitant even to extend for always. A rudiment of pride that the fact, they also, sway in the wind hot. The buffalo are dead. One morning, they refused the yoke, stretching on the flank to never raise. A depletion in the antipodes of the laziness. Those people had never known the rest. Pulling, walking of their not of convict, digging to feed the village, without never balk. The hunger and thirst have had because of their beautiful endurance and the glossy leather which shone at the zenith. In the past. The sun burns the shoulders seasoned of former and cracked the young copper skins. Children with swollen bellies of nothing, when they are still in life, no longer have the force of play. They observe their eyes chassieux where to amass the flies, their father become unfit to stand. Infants die in the arms of their mother unable to pay the slightest tear which could spray the earth. All sources are dried up. Even love would come to miss. Before this show, Aba laments more than the other. To him, the Chief of the village if fort, if courageous, is powerless to rescue its people, those who have always believed in him. It requested the spirits of the Ancestors, begged the shaman, mixing dances and mélopées, but neither the one nor the other has managed to make the gods weep to irrigate the land. To revive the wild torrent which fed the men. When women are washed the linen by singing and children if éclaboussaient in the Rainbow droplets of crystal. The cascade is first become laughs. Then scattered puddles. It is today a gap of clay without the slightest trace of moisture. The ruthless Sun continues to darder its rays of fire in a sky arrogant d'Azur. An ocean of blue to give the vertigo. The hornbills are silent, their Yellow plume of gold does not seduced more person. But the most sad is the watch off Kouly, extended on the Mat variegated. Dragonfly if menue and if frail. His wife, his love. A heart shaped face, eyelids rimmed with feathers and a smile to spread happiness as we dispersed seeds, the days of harvest, to stave off the fate. That next year will be flourishing. The oval of the face is emaciated, sharpening the os of the cheekbones parched, ready to crack. The breasts are round and full crack in during sadly. The smile of the young woman has fled with the ultimate drop of water, when Kouly has understood.
Aba also has understood. The rounding of the belly of his wife the taunted, criticizes mute. The head of the tribe, the husband of Kouly has worn his last net of saliva to moisturize the lips of his beloved but today its mouth is parched if he cannot murmurings his love. The love he has for his wife and son in that it puts all its heart to hatching. Aba remembers. The marriage had been the most beautiful of the region. In the village there had prevailed during three days and three nights of dances, songs and Ripaille. Of initiation rites also for adolescents become men. In his throbbing of tam-tams mingled the cries in the entire valley. Aba and Kouly were proud then. Ready to lead the Tribe toward a future fruitful. Build a family and offer a young leader to succeed ABA. Later. The shame added to the disappointed hopes overwhelms the young man. To rehash its regret, only at the bedside of Kouly, he is deaf to the agitation of the outside. The cries of the former and the laughter of children welcome. The thunder clap also, powerful, released from the bowels of the earth. Women, in alignment to each other, are already moving beyond the jars to harvest the precious nectar. The sky color slate is streaked with stripes of diamond, the wind has turned, tearing shamelessly pickets and was, décoiffant the homes of stubble. The air is so dense that men distinguished to sentence the shadows, to the exception of lightning that flood the faces of astonishment and joy. Ancestral fear and happiness to be in life. The hornbills smooth again their Yellow plume dusted. Aba appears on the trail. The prelude to the rain curtain on the point of slaughter, the first hot drop crashed on his skull. An anointing, a hymn to life. It then hears a cry ripping the darkness. At this time he does not know if it is of Kouly or of his son. This evening, The gods are returned to the village. Since his early childhood, Alexis agitated at the time where the car is committed to the left, in this place where the sign indicates "Bay of Giannaki, 3.5 km". It is my tactic. It is not safe. Sometimes it does not emerge from the fog. Sometimes it dissipates during the Monte. But it happens that the rope leads us just above the fog. It stops at this time. We put a foot on the fog to test its solidity. And then the other foot. What a pleasure and well-being we feel at this time. The Cozy walk on the FOG is worth all the therapies of the world. Illusions Marthe was lifting this early morning; having nothing wanted to change its habits, it was lowered barefoot in the kitchen, a shawl on the shoulders. It tisonnait the fire to do leave when the Coq was set to sing, the sun was just beginning to turn on of pale yellow the crests of the southern slope of the mountain. Has the smell of soup of the eve mingled with that of the coffee that Marthe warmer on the corner of the furnace and that of the apparel of stone that hung to the door mantle. A smell of wood, earth, sweat and cold ash... The tic-tac of the grandfather clock, égrenait the seconds and the thoughts of the woman who, elbows posed on the table, watched the day rise, drinking mechanically a few sips of coffee in a bowl of sandstone blue. This year the Gods have forgotten the men.
The earth is a crevasse clods Compact, of regular cubes to deep furrows as the hand. If hair that the SOC, in the beginning, exudes a color ash cinnabar. The grains of dust valsant in the vortices of the gust lead the more solid at the madness. In turn, they enter into trance, whirling dervishes for eternity. More a single root to nibble or then buried so deep that it cannot be the extract both the soil is callous. It must resign themselves to forget the feast, any shrunken that was this manna. Scratch, scrape even up to the blood of nails torn from the force to believe. On the surface, only have resisted a few grass yellowed, curved, withered, hesitant even to extend for always. A rudiment of pride that the fact, they also, sway in the wind hot. The buffalo are dead. One morning, they refused the yoke, stretching on the flank to never raise. A depletion in the antipodes of the laziness. Those people had never known the rest. Pulling, walking of their not of convict, digging to feed the village, without never balk. The hunger and thirst have had because of their beautiful endurance and the glossy leather which shone at the zenith. In the past.
The sun burns the shoulders seasoned of former and cracked the young copper skins. Children with swollen bellies of nothing, when they are still in life, no longer have the force of play. They observe their eyes chassieux where to amass the flies, their father become unfit to stand. Infants die in the arms of their mother unable to pay the slightest tear which could spray the earth. All sources are dried up. Even love would come to miss. Before this show, Aba laments more than the other. To him, the Chief of the village if fort, if courageous, is powerless to rescue its people, those who have always believed in him. It requested the spirits of the Ancestors, begged the shaman, mixing dances and mélopées, but neither the one nor the other has managed to make the gods weep to irrigate the land. To revive the wild torrent which fed the men. When women are washed the linen by singing and children if éclaboussaient in the Rainbow droplets of crystal. The cascade is first become laughs. Then scattered puddles. It is today a gap of clay without the slightest trace of moisture. The ruthless Sun continues to darder its rays of fire in a sky arrogant d'Azur. An ocean of blue to give the vertigo. The hornbills are silent, their Yellow plume of gold does not seduced more person. But the most sad is the watch off Kouly, extended on the Mat variegated. Dragonfly if menue and if frail. His wife, his love. A heart shaped face, eyelids rimmed with feathers and a smile to spread happiness as we dispersed seeds, the days of harvest, to stave off the fate. That next year will be flourishing. The oval of the face is emaciated, sharpening the os of the cheekbones parched, ready to crack. The breasts are round and full crack in during sadly. The smile of the young woman has fled with the ultimate drop of water, when Kouly has understood.
Aba also has understood. The rounding of the belly of his wife the taunted, criticizes mute. The head of the tribe, the husband of Kouly has worn his last net of saliva to moisturize the lips of his beloved but today its mouth is parched if he cannot murmurings his love. The love he has for his wife and son in that it puts all its heart to hatching. Aba remembers. The marriage had been the most beautiful of the region. In the village there had prevailed during three days and three nights of dances, songs and Ripaille. Of initiation rites also for adolescents become men. In his throbbing of tam-tams mingled the cries in the entire valley.
Aba and Kouly were proud then. Ready to lead the Tribe toward a future fruitful. Build a family and offer a young leader to succeed ABA. Later. The shame added to the disappointed hopes overwhelms the young man. To rehash its regret, only at the bedside of Kouly, he is deaf to the agitation of the outside. The cries of the former and the laughter of children welcome. The thunder clap also, powerful, released from the bowels of the earth. Women, in alignment to each other, are already moving beyond the jars to harvest the precious nectar. The sky color slate is streaked with stripes of diamond, the wind has turned, tearing shamelessly pickets and was, décoiffant the homes of stubble. The air is so dense that men distinguished to sentence the shadows, to the exception of lightning that flood the faces of astonishment and joy. Ancestral fear and happiness to be in life. The hornbills smooth again their Yellow plume dusted.
Aba appears on the trail. The prelude to the rain curtain on the point of slaughter, the first hot drop crashed on his skull. An anointing, a hymn to life. It then hears a cry ripping the darkness. At this time he does not know if it is of Kouly or of his son. This evening, The gods are returned to the village. Since his early childhood, Alexis agitated at the time where the car is committed to the left, in this place where the sign indicates "Bay of Giannaki, 3.5 km". It is my tactic. It is not safe. Sometimes it does not emerge from the fog. Sometimes it dissipates during the Monte. But it happens that the rope leads us just above the fog. It stops at this time. We put a foot on the fog to test its solidity. And then the other foot. What a pleasure and well-being we feel at this time. The Cozy walk on the FOG is worth all the therapies of the world. Illusions Marthe was lifting this early morning; having nothing wanted to change its habits, it was lowered barefoot in the kitchen, a shawl on the shoulders. It tisonnait the fire to do leave when the Coq was set to sing, the sun was just beginning to turn on of pale yellow the crests of the southern slope of the mountain. Has the smell of soup of the eve mingled with that of the coffee that Marthe warmer on the corner of the furnace and that of the apparel of stone that hung to the door mantle. A smell of wood, earth, sweat and cold ash... The tic-tac of the grandfather clock, égrenait the seconds and the thoughts of the woman who, elbows posed on the table, watched the day rise, drinking mechanically a few sips of coffee in a bowl of sandstone blue. This year the Gods have forgotten the men. The earth is a crevasse clods Compact, of regular cubes to deep furrows as the hand. If hair that the SOC, in the beginning, exudes a color ash cinnabar. The grains of dust valsant in the vortices of the gust lead the more solid at the madness. In turn, they enter into trance, whirling dervishes for eternity. More a single root to nibble or then buried so deep that it cannot be the extract both the soil is callous. It must resign themselves to forget the feast, any shrunken that was this manna. Scratch, scrape even up to the blood of nails torn from the force to believe. On the surface, only have resisted a few grass yellowed, curved, withered, hesitant even to extend for always. A rudiment of pride that the fact, they also, sway in the wind hot. The buffalo are dead. One morning, they refused the yoke, stretching on the flank to never raise. A depletion in the antipodes of the laziness. Those people had never known the rest. Pulling, walking of their not of convict, digging to feed the village, without never balk. The hunger and thirst have had because of their beautiful endurance and the glossy leather which shone at the zenith. In the past.
The sun burns the shoulders seasoned of former and cracked the young copper skins. Children with swollen bellies of nothing, when they are still in life, no longer have the force of play. They observe their eyes chassieux where to amass the flies, their father become unfit to stand. Infants die in the arms of their mother unable to pay the slightest tear which could spray the earth. All sources are dried up. Even love would come to miss. Before this show, Aba laments more than the other. To him, the Chief of the village if fort, if courageous, is powerless to rescue its people, those who have always believed in him. It requested the spirits of the Ancestors, begged the shaman, mixing dances and mélopées, but neither the one nor the other has managed to make the gods weep to irrigate the land. To revive the wild torrent which fed the men. When women are washed the linen by singing and children if éclaboussaient in the Rainbow droplets of crystal.
The cascade is first become laughs. Then scattered puddles. It is today a gap of clay without the slightest trace of moisture. The ruthless Sun continues to darder its rays of fire in a sky arrogant d'Azur. An ocean of blue to give the vertigo. The hornbills are silent, their Yellow plume of gold does not seduced more person. But the most sad is the watch off Kouly, extended on the Mat variegated. Dragonfly if menue and if frail. His wife, his love. A heart shaped face, eyelids rimmed with feathers and a smile to spread happiness as we dispersed seeds, the days of harvest, to stave off the fate. That next year will be flourishing. The oval of the face is emaciated, sharpening the os of the cheekbones parched, ready to crack. The breasts are round and full crack in during sadly. The smile of the young woman has fled with the ultimate drop of water, when Kouly has understood. Aba also has understood. The rounding of the belly of his wife the taunted, criticizes mute. The head of the tribe, the husband of Kouly has worn his last net of saliva to moisturize the lips of his beloved but today its mouth is parched if he cannot murmurings his love. The love he has for his wife and son in that it puts all its heart to hatching. Aba remembers. The marriage had been the most beautiful of the region. In the village there had prevailed during three days and three nights of dances, songs and Ripaille. Of initiation rites also for adolescents become men. In his throbbing of tam-tams mingled the cries in the entire valley. Aba and Kouly were proud then. Ready to lead the Tribe toward a future fruitful. Build a family and offer a young leader to succeed ABA. Later. The shame added to the disappointed hopes overwhelms the young man.
To rehash its regret, only at the bedside of Kouly, he is deaf to the agitation of the outside. The cries of the former and the laughter of children welcome. The thunder clap also, powerful, released from the bowels of the earth. Women, in alignment to each other, are already moving beyond the jars to harvest the precious nectar. The sky color slate is streaked with stripes of diamond, the wind has turned, tearing shamelessly pickets and was, décoiffant the homes of stubble. The air is so dense that men distinguished to sentence the shadows, to the exception of lightning that flood the faces of astonishment and joy. Ancestral fear and happiness to be in life. The hornbills smooth again their Yellow plume dusted.
Aba appears on the trail. The prelude to the rain curtain on the point of slaughter, the first hot drop crashed on his skull. An anointing, a hymn to life. It then hears a cry ripping the darkness. At this time he does not know if it is of Kouly or of his son. This evening, The gods are returned to the village. Since his early childhood, Alexis agitated at the time where the car is committed to the left, in this place where the sign indicates "Bay of Giannaki, 3.5 km". It is my tactic. It is not safe. Sometimes it does not emerge from the fog. Sometimes it dissipates during the Monte. But it happens that the rope leads us just above the fog. It stops at this time. We put a foot on the fog to test its solidity. And then the other foot. What a pleasure and well-being we feel at this time. The Cozy walk on the FOG is worth all the therapies of the world. Illusions Marthe was lifting this early morning; having nothing wanted to change its habits, it was lowered barefoot in the kitchen, a shawl on the shoulders. It tisonnait the fire to do leave when the Coq was set to sing, the sun was just beginning to turn on of pale yellow the crests of the southern slope of the mountain. Has the smell of soup of the eve mingled with that of the coffee that Marthe warmer on the corner of the furnace and that of the apparel of stone that hung to the door mantle. A smell of wood, earth, sweat and cold ash... The tic-tac of the grandfather clock, égrenait the seconds and the thoughts of the woman who, elbows posed on the table, watched the day rise, drinking mechanically a few sips of coffee in a bowl of sandstone blue. This year the Gods have forgotten the men. The earth is a crevasse clods Compact, of regular cubes to deep furrows as the hand. If hair that the SOC, in the beginning, exudes a color ash cinnabar. The grains of dust valsant in the vortices of the gust lead the more solid at the madness. In turn, they enter into trance, whirling dervishes for eternity. More a single root to nibble or then buried so deep that it cannot be the extract both the soil is callous. It must resign themselves to forget the feast, any shrunken that was this manna. Scratch, scrape even up to the blood of nails torn from the force to believe.
On the surface, only have resisted a few grass yellowed, curved, withered, hesitant even to extend for always. A rudiment of pride that the fact, they also, sway in the wind hot. The buffalo are dead. One morning, they refused the yoke, stretching on the flank to never raise. A depletion in the antipodes of the laziness. Those people had never known the rest. Pulling, walking of their not of convict, digging to feed the village, without never balk. The hunger and thirst have had because of their beautiful endurance and the glossy leather which shone at the zenith. In the past.
The sun burns the shoulders seasoned of former and cracked the young copper skins. Children with swollen bellies of nothing, when they are still in life, no longer have the force of play. They observe their eyes chassieux where to amass the flies, their father become unfit to stand. Infants die in the arms of their mother unable to pay the slightest tear which could spray the earth. All sources are dried up. Even love would come to miss. Before this show, Aba laments more than the other. To him, the Chief of the village if fort, if courageous, is powerless to rescue its people, those who have always believed in him. It requested the spirits of the Ancestors, begged the shaman, mixing dances and mélopées, but neither the one nor the other has managed to make the gods weep to irrigate the land. To revive the wild torrent which fed the men. When women are washed the linen by singing and children if éclaboussaient in the Rainbow droplets of crystal. The cascade is first become laughs. Then scattered puddles. It is today a gap of clay without the slightest trace of moisture. The ruthless Sun continues to darder its rays of fire in a sky arrogant d'Azur. An ocean of blue to give the vertigo. The hornbills are silent, their Yellow plume of gold does not seduced more person. But the most sad is the watch off Kouly, extended on the Mat variegated. Dragonfly if menue and if frail. His wife, his love. A heart shaped face, eyelids rimmed with feathers and a smile to spread happiness as we dispersed seeds, the days of harvest, to stave off the fate. That next year will be flourishing. The oval of the face is emaciated, sharpening the os of the cheekbones parched, ready to crack. The breasts are round and full crack in during sadly. The smile of the young woman has fled with the ultimate drop of water, when Kouly has understood. Aba also has understood. The rounding of the belly of his wife the taunted, criticizes mute. The head of the tribe, the husband of Kouly has worn his last net of saliva to moisturize the lips of his beloved but today its mouth is parched if he cannot murmurings his love. The love he has for his wife and son in that it puts all its heart to hatching. Aba remembers. The marriage had been the most beautiful of the region. In the village there had prevailed during three days and three nights of dances, songs and Ripaille. Of initiation rites also for adolescents become men. In his throbbing of tam-tams mingled the cries in the entire valley.
Aba and Kouly were proud then. Ready to lead the Tribe toward a future fruitful. Build a family and offer a young leader to succeed ABA. Later. The shame added to the disappointed hopes overwhelms the young man. To rehash its regret, only at the bedside of Kouly, he is deaf to the agitation of the outside. The cries of the former and the laughter of children welcome. The thunder clap also, powerful, released from the bowels of the earth. Women, in alignment to each other, are already moving beyond the jars to harvest the precious nectar. The sky color slate is streaked with stripes of diamond, the wind has turned, tearing shamelessly pickets and was, décoiffant the homes of stubble. The air is so dense that men distinguished to sentence the shadows, to the exception of lightning that flood the faces of astonishment and joy. Ancestral fear and happiness to be in life. The hornbills smooth again their Yellow plume dusted.
Aba appears on the trail. The prelude to the rain curtain on the point of slaughter, the first hot drop crashed on his skull. An anointing, a hymn to life. It then hears a cry ripping the darkness. At this time he does not know if it is of Kouly or of his son. This evening, The gods are returned to the village. Since his early childhood, Alexis agitated at the time where the car is committed to the left, in this place where the sign indicates "Bay of Giannaki, 3.5 km". It is my tactic. It is not safe. Sometimes it does not emerge from the fog. Sometimes it dissipates during the Monte. But it happens that the rope leads us just above the fog. It stops at this time. We put a foot on the fog to test its solidity. And then the other foot. What a pleasure and well-being we feel at this time. The Cozy walk on the FOG is worth all the therapies of the world. Illusions Marthe was lifting this early morning; having nothing wanted to change its habits, it was lowered barefoot in the kitchen, a shawl on the shoulders. It tisonnait the fire to do leave when the Coq was set to sing, the sun was just beginning to turn on of pale yellow the crests of the southern slope of the mountain. Has the smell of soup of the eve mingled with that of the coffee that Marthe warmer on the corner of the furnace and that of the apparel of stone that hung to the door mantle. A smell of wood, earth, sweat and cold ash... The tic-tac of the grandfather clock, égrenait the seconds and the thoughts of the woman who, elbows posed on the table, watched the day rise, drinking mechanically a few sips of coffee in a bowl of sandstone blue. This year the Gods have forgotten the men. The earth is a crevasse clods Compact, of regular cubes to deep furrows as the hand. If hair that the SOC, in the beginning, exudes a color ash cinnabar. The grains of dust valsant in the vortices of the gust lead the more solid at the madness. In turn, they enter into trance, whirling dervishes for eternity. More a single root to nibble or then buried so deep that it cannot be the extract both the soil is callous. It must resign themselves to forget the feast, any shrunken that was this manna. Scratch, scrape even up to the blood of nails torn from the force to believe. On the surface, only have resisted a few grass yellowed, curved, withered, hesitant even to extend for always. A rudiment of pride that the fact, they also, sway in the wind hot. The buffalo are dead. One morning, they refused the yoke, stretching on the flank to never raise. A depletion in the antipodes of the laziness. Those people had never known the rest. Pulling, walking of their not of convict, digging to feed the village, without never balk. The hunger and thirst have had because of their beautiful endurance and the glossy leather which shone at the zenith. In the past. The sun burns the shoulders seasoned of former and cracked the young copper skins. Children with swollen bellies of nothing, when they are still in life, no longer have the force of play. They observe their eyes chassieux where to amass the flies, their father become unfit to stand. Infants die in the arms of their mother unable to pay the slightest tear which could spray the earth. All sources are dried up. Even love would come to miss. Before this show, Aba laments more than the other. To him, the Chief of the village if fort, if courageous, is powerless to rescue its people, those who have always believed in him. It requested the spirits of the Ancestors, begged the shaman, mixing dances and mélopées, but neither the one nor the other has managed to make the gods weep to irrigate the land. To revive the wild torrent which fed the men. When women are washed the linen by singing and children if éclaboussaient in the Rainbow droplets of crystal. The cascade is first become laughs. Then scattered puddles. It is today a gap of clay without the slightest trace of moisture.
The ruthless Sun continues to darder its rays of fire in a sky arrogant d'Azur. An ocean of blue to give the vertigo. The hornbills are silent, their Yellow plume of gold does not seduced more person. But the most sad is the watch off Kouly, extended on the Mat variegated. Dragonfly if menue and if frail. His wife, his love. A heart shaped face, eyelids rimmed with feathers and a smile to spread happiness as we dispersed seeds, the days of harvest, to stave off the fate. That next year will be flourishing. The oval of the face is emaciated, sharpening the os of the cheekbones parched, ready to crack. The breasts are round and full crack in during sadly. The smile of the young woman has fled with the ultimate drop of water, when Kouly has understood.
Aba also has understood. The rounding of the belly of his wife the taunted, criticizes mute. The head of the tribe, the husband of Kouly has worn his last net of saliva to moisturize the lips of his beloved but today its mouth is parched if he cannot murmurings his love. The love he has for his wife and son in that it puts all its heart to hatching. Aba remembers. The marriage had been the most beautiful of the region. In the village there had prevailed during three days and three nights of dances, songs and Ripaille. Of initiation rites also for adolescents become men. In his throbbing of tam-tams mingled the cries in the entire valley. Aba and Kouly were proud then. Ready to lead the Tribe toward a future fruitful. Build a family and offer a young leader to succeed ABA. Later. The shame added to the disappointed hopes overwhelms the young man. To rehash its regret, only at the bedside of Kouly, he is deaf to the agitation of the outside. The cries of the former and the laughter of children welcome. The thunder clap also, powerful, released from the bowels of the earth. Women, in alignment to each other, are already moving beyond the jars to harvest the precious nectar. The sky color slate is streaked with stripes of diamond, the wind has turned, tearing shamelessly pickets and was, décoiffant the homes of stubble. The air is so dense that men distinguished to sentence the shadows, to the exception of lightning that flood the faces of astonishment and joy. Ancestral fear and happiness to be in life. The hornbills smooth again their Yellow plume dusted. Aba appears on the trail. The prelude to the rain curtain on the point of slaughter, the first hot drop crashed on his skull. An anointing, a hymn to life. It then hears a cry ripping the darkness. At this time he does not know if it is of Kouly or of his son. This evening, The gods are returned to the village. Since his early childhood, Alexis agitated at the time where the car is committed to the left, in this place where the sign indicates "Bay of Giannaki, 3.5 km".
Published on Wednesday, December 27 2017 by kamel ouati