The Doors From Walls

Of Easter the doors are ever smaller. Into so small that the love has long ears and the people, yes, the people, go and do more almsgivings to the poor. We are happy, even kidnappers. We learn from books how sets the sun. We learn how stupid we are looking the tears of joy of a child.

Of Easter, the lights are sweet only if we have beautiful eyes. The eyes cleansed of askance looks. Otherwise the things get complicated, raining with callousness, the walls become too small to suffocate you, for that and you become too boring for to be painted.

People die unloved.

And of Easter are people dying. They die on the street. Pure and simple they die. Because many of them do not live but saunter, they lose their trace, the hope, the finality of salvation.

But we, o Lord, we rejoice of Easter! We pass. We pass with lights in hands, we feel otherwise and we forgive those who have wronged to us.

We do not have walls! At we the doors are in heart, full of gratitude, full of good sense.

Yes, and I heard that exist chronophage reptiles, that exist many thieves of illusions!

At each step exists someone which asks you two times if the sun is even great girl. In each verse exists someone which wants a mouth of air.

Of Easter I read books without end.

Of Easter I eat sheep and not rabbits. The rabbits, the fearful rabbits do not have red eggs. But I have the egges of Easter, for that I am orthodox and orthodoxies paint the eggs in the Great Thursday.

I am sure that the walls did not say anything when Judas hanged himself.

Many walls are mat.

But if you have not doors in walls, you have not heart. The heart comes at pachet with the paschal joy.

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