Jan 29
From the tongue of mirrors,
toward the geometry of vines.
The fierce ferment of distant years,
our perpetual paths.
We wither in the whirlwind of days,
virtuous man – ogre man,
no one knows.
toward the geometry of vines.
The fierce ferment of distant years,
our perpetual paths.
We wither in the whirlwind of days,
virtuous man – ogre man,
no one knows.
