.
I have always known you
Stranger,
In this whirling tavern,
Where life is plasmic.

You speak with sweetest
Nothings,
In my groping, deaf ears,
Where sense is non.

And now we are laying
Hollow,
On this letted, fresh bed,
Without any clues.

Your are plain, beautiful
Stranger,
Your hands ply my soul,
As bees on dry flower.