Pastel fingers were shaping circles
On the white porcelain wall,
depitcting with them moments incoming and gone
Palms - foreign and unknown are imaging
Otherworldy shores on her.
Ah, you, pagan gods,
hardly will ever get see her star ices
You will never hear the songs,
telling about the colors of her body.

Pastel eyes saw
in her other distant worlds,
while his hands were drawing
in these circles:
waterfalls and around them
low with flower meadows,
and deers passing by through,
high-light palette of feelings by the sun warmth...
Was him an artist without a name,
Or a colourfull writer?
Or completely destroyed by the smell
of the peonies blossomed in her, dreamer?