The Ribbon of the Garden Legion

Too humid dawn now lamplight,

humidity forecast rainy.

The winds in the valley intertwined

and the smog of the city disappears.

Between me and the sun's rays

no wrappers, no obstacles.

Burns the skin, nails without nail,

hair tousled as transversely.

On my way to the garden disconsolate,

everything looks bent and wet.

Now the young heady flowers;

suddenly everything is important to me,

and thin flower, and wet mushrooms,

the tips of the leaves on young trees

in the middle of this small plowed fields

where crumbling country rifling

and every crumb must be right,

moist and not so very dry.

It's in the living room reality,

small garden wearing new clothes.

I feed the medicinal smell,

fruits to comb my hair,

and decorate my nails iris

that my morning wear.

I'm all alone, the last butterfly

wound down on Spring Street.

I dress to shoulder new ribbon,

sash that falls under my face,

dark moonlight forgetting

I carry the sun in front of me in the day.

After that do not stop any more.

The stone that was all sold out,

him carry small pieces

that I draw from my terrarium.

Secretly send kisses there,

to the stars I quietly creeping.

05/21/2014. 10:16