Toddler Vomiting After Running

morning I heard this music, as if in a trance and I started to think of you. I do not like to go more 'a few days without it you think, but more so, in the background, quietly. Then maybe go any excuse, which can 'be such a little' English guitar, and here's my heart, my soul, you want to disconnect from me and go shoot at you, to the rhythm of flamenco. Running with the wind from the east, towards you. My soul will claim at full voice, with all his might, and the thought of not viverti, not to immerse myself in you, not to see your people walking your hills on fire, your nights at sea, your squares and your people proud, I am evil, 'a full malaise, a painful feeling of emptiness, lack crowds. The circumstances do not allow me viverti as I would like, or viverti at all. You're just a thought, a memory, but enough two notes and that's becoming a huge voracious regret that swallows everything around it ...
Do not say goodbye, 'as thou wast never could when I was still able to dance the flamenco, when I could still stay up all night and dance around a campfire with guitars and dancing and clapping.
Spain, beautiful, cheerful, yellow and red, sun and sea, music and passion, agony and tears and transport, I miss you and can not be mad 'have you ever, ever as I could, and you'll be one of the most mei' great regret .

But you can not 'never know, maybe one day I will be' an old lady that warms the bones in his front yard full of flowers, with Levante that breaks down the white hair, and I'll ' barefoot, and hit 'my tiles, chosen by me, and I'll' around my friends who laugh and tell their children and their grandchildren, who departed on the road and who knows' where on earth will be gone, and out dall'Andalucia what else we can 'be, and' all over 'quiet, more' sad, but in the meantime we'll drink and laugh at the pole and I look at 'the sun set on fire to the mountain and tell' to myself, "But in fact, what else c ' and 'out dall'Andalucia? ". Then I will rise 'to pick up the phone and that is that my children will find us, and he will have' finished his last mural, just in time for the room's daughter Margherita. Who knows'. First