Let this be a mystery in the mist

< Anshe

Let it be in the mist mystery,
who covered his hands in my boat
my hands holding the oars,
my lips thoughtfully,
Who messed up my spit wind,
who called my tears dew,

who collected the tea leaves with me,
who dospeval me juicy apple,
and penetrated into my solar light,
who is on the blades patterns
fingers I drew, and whispered in my tenderness ...
I still miss him ...
The river is sad sounds, "Where is he ...?"
I answer the current of quiet:
"He was on top of the sleeping volcano
strength continues to constrain its
rain, so the field is not covered with pumice,
and showered stones lighter
somewhere in the valleys, ravines, hollows ...
He rustle in waterfall jazz,
sound recognizable to stupor,
He will return to the aroma of rose,
cloying breath, fruit pulp,
juice on the edge of the mouth raspberry ... "

Rowing against the tide
oars my hands were overgrown veins,
I grew up and became strong,
night swim under the moon of fire,
and the silence of the stars dilute,
that in reflection river swaying.
I miss the sick swan,
neither fly nor sail to the shore ...


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