And it is never a confusion when it comes to your love
Finding words in a poor world of martyred and deepened burn
I Clear the paper smart in a second
Despite the forcing sunset with most beautiful lively spirit
I am still dead and I am still slumbering on my knees
Pleasantly bosoming, frightened and afraid to be remembered
The anthology of passion is simple
The innermost myself placing the superiority of surrender
letters come with offerings;
Labored in a special kind of postal service
The eye sight of you urges more interruptings...
It is more than scissors on the run
It is the knight grinder for curling fun...
scents and blooming crushes publishing the minority
It is the courtesy of unprinted section tender,
This material that we can never get copyrighted
saves us despite of tiger's forced excess exile
It is this continued dew morning that never inks out...
This intimacy of celebration slits passages to walk
Quite different if you compare it to young poet Touryan
The western blood of land confusion
This fusion announcer of theatric loving;
he says 'poet's wish is never true I am afraid'
But night's pleasing transport carries
The prideful waves to morning's million desire thread
eating, conversating, sleeping
day exaggerates on you with wealth
and when land is circling on water's phosphorescence
Nature's romance still comes to rescue
prose imagination in a crowded library-
you possess the pore by collecting fulfillment with priced salary...
It is more than scissors on the run
It is the knight grinder for curling fun...
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