Jun 2020
Smitten by your holy
tongue, the muse melts
in the raging sun.
There was a deep
gorge between the hills.
My face turns blue.
Trembling hands will knit
splendent wreath for a
departing moon.
tongue, the muse melts
in the raging sun.
There was a deep
gorge between the hills.
My face turns blue.
Trembling hands will knit
splendent wreath for a
departing moon.
