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■ Pașadine în vers alb (73)
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2009-01-06 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] |
when he plays
music notes gather on top of tiny hills above his nose then slowly slide amused down the valley of his chin onto his supple violin when he inhales he fills his nostrils up with clouds and lets them cry inside his lungs until his breath comes out a garland of sweet light through his panpipe his fingers touch the brown guitar he tickles, pinches, gets close but still a bit too far way up into his weary head. his worried heart wails loud and tears old worlds apart in all that unity he's preaching there is no real right or wrong mere words for a hard-headed woman from a tough gong who belongs to his song
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