You are the baby of many mothers, always near the moon ever cascading in the wind. Your bellows true and remark that time is hindered to a new drumbeat. Your veins run thin along the lines of your skin, you breath fairies and showers into the shins of existence. Your eyes blue with hints of sullen grimace. Has the time neared soon enough? Have the showers cleared? I know now nothing more then what I already did. You said this would take more, even though you seemed indifferent to any changes blessed with your sins.
