Her soap-bubbled-eyes
Ask for a pointed nail
The tree on her back
Demands the autumn to take
Her leaves and begs
The wood-cutter to chop
It all, even the roots
Like a fly, crushed against
The wall, leaving sludge behind
Her voice is an echo
The words laugh at eachother
The name of God she adores
And speaks whenever her soul
Yearns and runs away
Ah! Who has a soul?
In which fireplace is vigour hiding?
She is swept away
Color has vanished
| herfstkind: | Dinsdag, januari 21, 2003 17:25 |
| mooi geschreven, anders als ik ben gwend, maar wel mooi... liefs Evi |
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| Auteur: Armand Manoochehry | ||
| Gecontroleerd door: christina | ||
| Gepubliceerd op: 21 januari 2003 | ||
| Thema's: | ||