I Kiss my fantasy, with lips as wet,
As moss,
I kiss my fractions of sentiments, which boils and bubbles a lot.
My cauldron of hate, toils and troubles around these frames of life,
I trust the nameless destination, but not the very shadowing impermanence of signs.

I kiss the cotton, with silky care and sun burnt mirth,
I kiss and caress my huntings for a three hundred degrees thirst,
I point towards the woods, wherein the fountain may sprinkle some water over the lost balloons,
I try finding, what I found, and what I lost at certain gloomy afternoons.

I come back home without a burden, after scorching conversations, which
stitches and stuffs the telling tales,
Of and about the gaseous state of fire, which may bring some happiness under my battlements.

And, In pieces and punches and in pastures I breathe,
But, I do shiver at the very thought of attachments, in brief.