219. DONATElLO

219. Donatello Sink your lute scratches in the land of pilgrim furrows, to retain the dread of the exhausted trunk. The executioner just entered reticulated, Herod thrown back in disgust placing his hands so as not to be pierced by the angular face, flagged with mutilation, engraved his gaze on the wall in the distance with black feathers of the blood that crosses the bush of the precipice and its beaches, with the swell, gloom of the lamentations. Salome in the folds of her snake-wrapped dance, solid silhouette in the ruse, with his dance, specter of a gospel, from the ground under the ground feet under the ground gangrene under the soul the soul under the mother. And the reverse up to the ground. his explanatory body approaches the king, he walks away in horror they form a hollow, the pointed head the instigator and Herod. Inside to the hollow of the hollow, violin grinding the situation they undaunted, the bread, the plate, the glasses and the table decorated in the baptismal font, of the slain Baptist. In the hollow saved from the hollow the window behind, behind nothing happens the gift man. the bread and host, the drone and his moth. The event will pass and the guest the guest and the hospital; the hospice of the harassed. man asking for charity while drone passerby overturns to its shell. He wallows in the first room, the children come out terrified, blood falls of the lamb. Look at the hole in the wall that the Baptist I leave in the hospitality book. A hostile launch to the one who gave us the water of redemption, we gestured with the bread which encourages us to: stir the flavors; run the stenches; mop them with flattery and fires lit slime included.