There’s an emerald of a paint box,
With wings of the city at night,
It lives in a shadow,
In a moment as she whispers ,
Do you ever see the stars?
There’s a house on a hill,
In a picture in a dream,
The winding road calls me in the flow of a stream.
Freed ripples of deathlike grace,
Ever-changing in form are breathing low.
Like a fire without trace,
The games are playing us,
Like a bodiless face ,
We are lit by a haze.
In the tunes that we are,
In the lost note of a parade,
The gong of lust in us engraved,
We have fought for our grace.
No comments:
Post a Comment