Author Information
PRO
tit of my heart
is not melt to think you
in the spicy day
and to bury you inside the bossomness
the thin of life
is lik passing through needle-hole
O! i must not think you
when the fire-rain
trembles the linens of soil
but i must think you
during the dartless of sollo
to the marrow of mello
crying of my son
causes by the hot of your son
i call danny
comes so many
stupidity of earth
must halt and douse by hearth
invitation of tomorrow
woukd borrow-
us the erasure
to our sweatful pressure
with which our ooth leg
would walk us to the sharpen cave
where gentle dove
lays metal egg
your lips is a snowy sugared
