Monday, November 01, 2004


Wool crosses painted with my hand.
Time becomes hurry in this place
Unneaty and nasty;
As any drawer box somewhere, thus.


Your voice burn all my pleasure howling me
Almost without plint,
From the near key drop from my fear.

My flesh, soothen as a unlitten horizon,
Fondle time nearly closed in my hands,
That make asleepy every instant of loving together,
In this, our obscurity.

And our peace, which from your lips follow myself among your words,
Sing a song of an inmense joyfully
Within our lone friendship and our untasted love.
And you;: Where are you now?


Post a Comment

<< Home