The night was black and full of stars, but the horizon was encircled by clouds with flashes of light flashed free.
The white rice paper lanterns, struggling in the wind Sounded like wasps el'orchesta nerve, it was just us.
And the wind got up the first drops fell, the orchestra fled, we looked up the dance continues in the silence of the dark.
The drops were feathers tickled her face, her eyes There pulirono scopriron the mirror, looked at from the outside so embraced.
Our bodies reflected the few clothes already wet, the lanterns were extinguished, but we saw more clearly, then we figured out more: Yukio Mishima!
Great men do not speak, like cherry blossoms scatter, before the descent who persist in surviving heroes, but as cut flowers that I chose between a lot for you, the more Belloi the young man who falls first on the lawn, demonstrating that life is meaningless without dying, reviewing the substance of the heroes.
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