The fruit is done. Now it has touched the bounds of its form, ripens toward what’s beyond, and with a sweet longing turns to rot from inside. The sea is not far, from here you can sense the depth of blue, the song of blue, and the fruit knows: each tree and its fruit, the tree is the one to decide, and every normal fruit loves its tree. Even if the poet’s fruits are not to be foreseen. Suddenly on an apple tree cucumbers grow, but love is foreseen. 
There’s a cucumber in the apple’s flavor. Both face the sea and the wind, or with wine, and the woman observing.
To woman to breasts to taste the apple hums and sings: I’m a young cucumber who hasn’t known yet the taste of a woman’s bite. The sea engenders its own appeal, the poet approaches his end next to the woman facing the sea and a plateful of plum pits
The the next occasion I just read a blog, I really hope that it doesnt disappoint me around this place. Come on, man, I know it was my choice to read, but I really thought youd have some thing fascinating to convey. All I hear is actually a number of whining about something that you could fix if you werent too busy seeking attention.