My cherished woman, Without a face, Dwells in my books, And diaries, Without a stance; In my coffee cup, She swims And passes in my mirror, Without a trace; She wanders About In my veins, sings in my heart, Recreates in my brain, Without a trance, When she leaves; I follow vibrations Of her presence, Fading in the street’s noise, And fashionable curiosity, Love of the city, In every place, Carrying a shy red rose, My heart, Which she knows, She often plants passion There, In every space, That she irrigates, With warm stream, In patience, As it grows, And only sighs, As she goes With innocent pace.
Unthinkable. Lithograph of a malaise. I cannot talk. Will you abandon the thought and care about the drowning dawn? The bandaged ego of the book threatens the reader. Come and solve the puzzle of poetry. Everything was quiet except the