she dissolved golden rays
of long spikes of the wheat hair
and with the eye being on fire
tumbled down into his reflecting shoulders
bother with the lightning avid for the delight
of the green morning
and of hidden desires
for eternal torment,
repeatable
with the frequency
of falling
sheet of papers of the calendar...
the rustle of silence
wrapped up
in starched matter
is heard
as unwrapping
colour pieces of paper.
sweet...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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