Little lamb munching
on the sunset lawn before...

My laceration
and your thorns are what the red...

It was deep inside the wound of that tramp
that I learned to be a gentleman...

All these roads are as the print of lashes
on his body...

If you truly love her,
before sinking into the murky eddy...

He mumbled:
_for a man who writes just for his shadow...

Days and they are gone
but his deeds remain, indeed...

When you stroke the harps of these feelings
you do not know your fingers...

Anything ephemeral
in its burn...

Your voice
makes me cave deep, deep into my heart...

Not finding it anywhere
but in yourselves...

A plastic rose last
forever for it is dead...