Where are my donkey and my ox?

The last beer, please, in front of him, she laughed and he took conscience about his many grammatical errors, his absence of linguistic wealth and his inability to understand the volatile word of that beloved, graceful dove. She received his absurd accent like the rumble of train.

He was broken without building new ways. The last times, strange women and men took pictures where he dance, cry or run, as if these people were the sculptors to a new life that should be develop only by him.

Were the emissaries of angry gods?

Were these gods so weak that their loved freedom should be sectioned?

Were these gods of their freedom, also the gods of punishments?.

These smalls gods were powerful when they saw the mutual indifference among people who suffering their multiplied preached incompetence.

His words were losing value, when he showed her that garden where she discovered that his delicious cherries had been fertilized from an mysterious range of transgenic tomatoes as the Chaves’ picture had been token by a sibylline provider of bait. It would be the last time to find out a common room. Now, they would build this space if the silence was so cold.

 The donkey and ox wandered helpless. I called them as the ultimate grip. I was happier when they slept close to me.