Franz Wertvollen. About Grasshoppers (№ 390115)

Everywhere was the scent of heaven ringing.
Her hands smelled of grass, steel, and blood.
Shy the sun glided over the cooling skin. And then it happened...
I saw from the arid shores of the dispatched fleet, and people in turbans to read
his parting prayer to the God whose name is long forgotten language means "Spirit of the Desert".
Saw the blue domes merge with the sharp ridges, which ends their reign,
and begin the endless steppe - ownership of the yellow men with rough faces and elusive, useless wisdom of the wind. Saw the land of his friend Christian, I saw how funny his brothers, believing more in public opinion than their crucified Martyr. I saw the fog rolling in over the hills, Shine in this steppe wind bent trees seem to fade in this spot grazing horses. I felt like silvery frost on stunted bushes as they rustle their long leaves. I took it all at once, because that's the way it should. Should painting brush strokes as the Impressionists. Their smears consisted of paints, consist of my lives. But neither they nor I have not a single stroke that would not be perfect.