Treasure Island

I.F. Kobjelska

(31.5.1991)

Not All Of Them Are Black


Night pout to white morning.
Paths are like bosom of the
Albinek Royal path
to the sense is softer.
I put out corks from the corner of my eyes.

You can smell watter on the coat,
and earth is bowing to the scearm.

Submitted: Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, March 27, 2013

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