363
You are so ...
< Anshe
You are so chronic that bitter
with throats bitten fog.
Spicy juice carambola nevyspevshey
dries up when inhaling hot mouth.
You enter into the pores of the countless needles,
even on weekdays when you are moody and peg,
and closed pockets on buttons
with the same tenderness, wings beating tired
bird-thought out the window, I'll stay and will not leave ...
I'll live on a bench at your
fountains no colorful umbrellas, tiled roofs,
and watch you sleep ...
You are so chronic that bitter
with throats bitten fog.
Spicy juice carambola nevyspevshey
dries up when inhaling hot mouth.
You enter into the pores of the countless needles,
even on weekdays when you are moody and peg,
and closed pockets on buttons
with the same tenderness, wings beating tired
bird-thought out the window, I'll stay and will not leave ...
I'll live on a bench at your
fountains no colorful umbrellas, tiled roofs,
and watch you sleep ...
