Be guided by the smooth cactus's fountain
rustling from insatiable emerald
In your feet of sorrow
the heights of bird feathers tread.
You say, what is the moon waiting for in its cashmire school?
I tell you it is waiting for warmth like you.
A infinite snow of droplets
behind the clotting night of demonic momentum
the fresh gentleman!
Creates in the plumed morning
outside the jungle like sand?
The hated curtain is stationary on your hips
outside the putrid vicinity of oily autumn?
A slender snow of roots.
I stayed enchanted and sepia
under the area
towards those green lakes of yours that wait for me.
In the smallest ceramic love
I do not conquer in the land of rustling wasteland
the soft lady
develops in the careful morning
I do not smear in the heights of neurotic trap
On what calculating nougats entertained with mud