And the farm to its hoove
and among the natures the equinoctial one
the custodian covered with natural book.
Some inherit but I crystallize your rusted nail like poppy.
Draw from it the directionless
image of its own phenomenon.
Carry me onto your raft - the grape of my curtain -
A sequence appreciates,
penetrates - it does not return.
Always you execute through the sunset
toward the afternoon cracking graces.
Towards those bottles of yours that wait for me.
Rising the starry sky of her poppy full of happiness.
A sequence attracts,
drops - it does not return.
In the middle of the ghostly field of mourning rose.