| Like sunlight on winterskin,
|
| such is the pleasure he brings.
|
| Down, down, down… to the
|
| high-pitched sound of insect-like
|
| buzzing machines.
|
| Will he be waiting for me?
|
| Bottles of ink and parchments
|
| of glory, all testify to the
|
| intricate story that slowly unfolds
|
| in my mind…-
|
| how could I not bath him in light?
|
| Yet, true is the heart that asks
|
| for nothing in return.
|
| I can’t tell him how I feel,
|
| just abandon all hope as I lean back
|
| and close my eyes…-
|
| there are scars in the evening sky.
|
| Green is the light of the
|
| healing heart… or the demon
|
| that tears you apart.
|
| Down, further down. |
| to the
|
| ever soothing sound
|
| of busily humming machines.
|
| He had not been waiting for me.
|
| The autumn-flower of spring
|
| knows that hope is a terrible thing.
|
| Content with what little may come,
|
| his hands are warm like the sunlight
|
| dancing on pale winterskin…-
|
| I cherish the pleasure he brings
|
| to me. |