swarming my fear of getting lost, with my backpack and my vocabulary of two pages ... flows into my eyes in colors: red, yellow, blue, black, white and green lawns without borders ... Primos hill to hear the heartbeat absent, as small as a daisy look at London from above ... and free ... is free as you can not explain, because freedom has no identity, only here and reach out my hands to the sky and cry ... Skeggia may actually be what he wants and become inappropriate and starry skies cloud ... I see some of my free spirit and memories I love you ... and feel the dust of the compromises made ready for storage never fly away with the gray sky ...
and walk down the street from English people who have nothing between the speed around me and breaks my breath to get there ... but run away and then returned small and inadequate, but I like myself and I am surprised by this progressive compliment that I suspend in the air ...
stuck to the hair color as if they were paintings. there is nothing but the dark sky ...
and then perfumes, fragrances of the East and take away the smell of the road and sketched a table in every corner ... and the taste of fried food that I devastates hair ...
a world in which I am an unexpected guest ...
and the joy of knowing that ale is always forever ... and while I take the bus and hold back the tears I leave my last smile to me is a blockage to the heart ...
there are people that get into the epidermis, which you know the dreams that you never said ... the words you hide behind your sun off ... and would like to simply say that ...
then cry like never before ... I'm happy, I leave a tube in the rough diamond of my heart, but take away a Skeggia I never knew ...
my London is the winter of my past and the spring of my future ...
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