Such a cloudy songy breezy morn...

The cool breeze kissing his lips
Just went away like a butterfly colored
As if she had more lips to kiss
As if she had that onus
On her to spread color
And love...

And he stood feeling in
The coolness of the wind
Songy as if she became a song...
And standing there
Amidst apparent nowhere
For twenty three minutes forty seconds long
he had that nothingness entering...
A nothingness filled by birds' morning songs
And roosters'  call,
And the sleepy beautiful,
The Peace of the morn,
The Alanis country green
A scene often seen
And yet something
that never left one unburied...

Unraveled
Esctatic
Unearthed
Discovered
Bloomed

And the cool breeze
Came back
Again
On his skin
Like a butterfly colored...
Beautiful...

And one heard him
Stating
Not saying
As if unsaid...
Still felt in tongue...
'Elle devient une chanson...'

A song ...
Rippled
Somewhere then...

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