Maybe life is all about twirling under one of those midnight skies, cutting a swathe through the breeze and gently closing your eyes.

some winterswill never meltsome summerswill never freezeand some things will only... live in poems.

And stay, my dearstay...forever, as my quiet song,in my lilac dawn.

Tell me..how do you stand there?filling the doorway....of my life.

when whisperedwhat an exquisitesong, it makes-your name.

You should be more carefulwhen you move, my dearwhat with you...spilling moonlightinto my poem, with a mereflick of your hand.

Watch, how the sunslowly risesfrom behind my earnew lines, new countriesspring up in my palmsmy rough hairbecome swaying silkand all the leavesin my bodybecome lusher than fruits.

in the endit is wordspoetry. sunsetssomeone’s deep blue silk voice.mountain scents.someone’s smile.eyes. that we haveno defenses against.

I am a tale, I am a book, written in different languages and styles I can’t be read, can’t be understood,neither by me nor the greatest of minds I am too big, I am too small, to be processed or seen by the naked eye I am too dim, I am too bright, to appear in the shadows or the sunshine.