It does not encode the mysteries

 And death is opposed to wonderful life. Does not want. Does not want. Does not want. Leaves her without tickets. Despite the beautiful sea of ​​your home. It does not encode the mysteries. It leaves words to life like foliage. The trees are yours there. I, as an antidote, write your name. Which erases the profaned words. With the distance of the eyes. With the sound of your name. Born out of death. Innocent there. There my heart in you. In urgency. There in front of the big words. Beyond I read you. The heart and your halo. From the previous sky scorched. Of the cold stones that constitute it. Taken in you, protected, alive, formerly wandering.

Sense, then ex-isto as a hypo/thesis.