Some days I talk to wind
nature blossoms my art
freedom without a purpose makes
purist form of clouds
Words are for no one
when the light of moon
stir up the winds and cloud
waved to a thick low music
Sweetest essence of the poison
mixing the possession of magic to
bravery in the ripple of blue water
saxophone blow ' life not far away'
Cloud heaven is a feather bed
green spring in the winter fall
when all pieces are in one place
deep silence, long gone
Some words speaks some are not
vacuum sit tight since wind fill it
flagging down a friendly cloud
sleep in dreams with all love and peace
until an another dawn says
Good Morning !
imagine of a calm decent slow music pub, located on a rooftop of a capital in tropical country, imagine of a guy who sat on a table in a quiet corner, sipping a cocktail alone, with a help of frail dim light on a Friday of the last week of a November .The pub is called "cloud cafe"