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Tuesday, November 10, 2020

Angels As Herself- -

She walks as lightly as the pig
Skates on the sky in November.

To hear her moving jacket
For me is music's highest love.

Stones are not heard, when her voice pass,
No more than tumps of moss or grass.

When she sits still, she's like the Orchid
To be a butterfly next hour.

The brook laughs not more sweet, when she
Trips over pebbles suddenly.
My Love, like her, can whisper too loud -
When she comes where green ocean grow.


When she is near, my arms can hold
All that's worth having in this blue world.
And when I know not where she is,
Nothing can come but comes with love.
Written by Natasa C. To
Pen name Tulip
11/10/2020 @6: 00am
Natasa To
Topic(s) of this poem: her
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1/19/2021 10:06:06 AM # 1.0.0.404