are my favourite. Who flies.
like a shooting star in the sky
At night.
Is this call from your garden of the asylum?

Making my entrance into you
Flew, clinging to the window
by the claws of mine.
The garden knows nothing but the illness.
Only it knows of your greatness,
Relieved.

A wind squeezing sounds, birds chirping.
Then Head to toe.
The fullness on you is a witchcraft.

Certainly you must have made this barriers and behind them,
you are you
Of stars, the brightest,
the genuine.

Where am I... yet I am heading to you.