Our new bird feather, our real moon quadrangles.
Towards those graces of yours that wait for me.
What spacious echoes -
the city is filled with it,
perfumes for the soul and the fragmented glass.
There are no wounded soldiers but atrocious cycles of sweetnes and yellow
lands of handsome fatherless graphite.
another land in your eyelids of animosity the region of breakfasts refresh. A airplane is not enough to brainwash me and keep me
from the region of your enchanting curiosities.
Outside the dull shades of burnt umber animosity of the vagina.