Monday

He's the writer saw a beautiful dream,
it was the whole of creation,
that he misses so.
London walked down the street together.
I get the seventh airship,
I get over the rainbow.
The first evening, Monday
when people lived, then the kingdom of of restless
still waiting for their prince.

Perhaps I am blind,
or heart warmth covers
thick bark of despair.
Not to help voice gentle,
not reproving Sermon on the Mount.

I just write, and I live resourceful.
I slept as wake up
princess, a hundred years old, and
It is the kiss of a prince,
over the woman's new earth.

In the evening, only with the heart his pillow visits
to rest, it is always a moment
I have a full woman, so different.

Again, arrived on Monday,
now have a week to go until received.
It was my dream man,
which I miss so.
Eyes, when caught in depressions,
the image of the soul from fabric
the reflected.

Now it is once again here in June,
my heart gypsum, and
wrappings hides.
Our access to paradise once again was denied.
The night of dreams some people of Finland
homes algae added.

Increasingly alone I stayed here the last kingdom
old dragons.