The secret of our winter grass
invented sleeping on the balcony of an impossible space
recycled between stones and tiles
dreams of a suit of emotions
fire burning in the fireplace
wagging in greyness a hell of stars
play with your hair
stroked hoary tufts of clouds
in the well of laments the moon was back
comb chanted tufts
and clasped their hair confused
while my hands were lost in a thousand strands of kite
a pipe smelled of old wood
sandalwood and oriental mixture
a bow tie striped silk that still dancing between the tables of the back of an old chair
are traces of you
living shadow
reflects the image you
drenched in melancholy
to return to this mirror
to make me believe that I am delirious shadow of oblivion
and when you come back in the dark
carousel silent whispers and kisses
stumble in old roots of alder.
The soft snow warms your hands
air comes alive in the wreckage of life.
No corolla white blanket covers the
the whiteness of the night he disappeared
and throat of the path that climbs
sinks between the lines
leaving me to wait until the next snow .
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