It would be called a trip

 Of little. From those. Of us. Our mouth like yours. No shared sadness. Without fair penalty. Always in his moments. It rumbles us. When it is said it takes us. Beyond the common wild. Without loving the destruction. In its unbearable break. In his blind hands. How not to see them cutting the hours! In this black land. Murals on which reality paints itself. It would be called a trip. Open wind. In front of that safe of the walls of the chest of the soul.