Blue water and pink oily skin
Feeling through little yellow and brown beetles
Of mud and fairies of silken streams
That flow out,
directly to me from the landscape
It all is a single minute, of a thoughtless string
Of mind’s vacuum and the fragrance
Of lilies on my stove.
There are tiring roads of small white hours
running across my window
and I am still looking , for something...
so many times, wishing, for an underneath,
while the winds, still softly touch all the things,
uncovered,
my face will show-
what a sun looks like,
going down its own light...
