How it is to silent night
the stars the moon's hand
magic dust eat
some valley
Only an owl hooting
and the wind quietly grain sway.
I never you
told how well
can also be one of these
dreams stir up the air.
Do not tell me that
I dearest to you.
You can not ever
shackle steppe wild wind
you are a restless writing in
red lips.
I do not fit into any of the finished
mold, I do not strait-jacket image
frame.
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