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The frogs of France sing in the humid, is a litany for the collapsed machines of a post-industrial era of twisted metals, and for my heart, that got too blind to hear it.
Summer night and they never knew about the moon and sun; or about one too many secret abattoirs in the dark.
Or about the love, or the despise. Of the frogs of France...
...During those twilights that seemed like eternal for us sometimes, some things got confused and thick when should be natural and crystaline, like the panzers under the alsatian sun...
Like the crystal of some crystaline eyes, and a pang that it hurts.
Yet.
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