With this breeze,
With this season
Of love,
Love,
Take me to Your winged charms,
With this album of songs,
As ever Brightened, as a sky of a morn,
Morn,
Take me where I was born,
To that Gandharaj tree,
That field of poesy,
That lotus pond,
Take me there,
As a whiff of air.
Monday, November 11, 2013
With this breeze, with this season of love,
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
The State Funeral
At least they have given her The State Funeral With tongue cut, She could not have spoken for The rare award, The police have done the th...
-
Lord As a pianist whence Fully one fills a sense... An evening thinks perhaps it proper To become a starry night's divine lover... ...
-
For the last few days... They are not talking... They just listen together-songs... Not songs proper even-some kind of music, instrument...
-
Once the sculpted face Fell and with it fell Our pride Our demons We made love after that By the sides of our past. (For 'Magp...
No comments:
Post a Comment