20 stycznia 2024
On Naked Paper
Smitten by your holy
tongue, the muse melts
in the raging sun.
There was a deep
gorge between the hills.
My face turns blue.
Trembling hands will knit
splendent wreath for a
departing moon.
20 stycznia 2024
Smitten by your holy
tongue, the muse melts
in the raging sun.
There was a deep
gorge between the hills.
My face turns blue.
Trembling hands will knit
splendent wreath for a
departing moon.
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