Flowers are melting
hands grasping snowflakes
dry wet life from sand.

I dry, you are the rain that flushed my body.
And we are fertile land with loose soil. Then feelings grew in it.
Under the heavens I pray,
that I will be strong enough to hold you back any longer,
so that you won't disappear
or come home at any time.

Love is the harvest of feelings that can make us survive in a bad season, before actually coming,
after we're really cooked.

Burned by the sun,
Waiting,
In the middle of the day,
Waiting,
Nowhere to go,
It has been dry for a while
and I pray “Rainy rain
fall on me, and fall on him,
fall, fall, fall ... if not
I’ll be the rain,
and he'll be the earth,
falling into each other secrets”

I’ll be his fresh rainfall,
His clime and his
Every season to come,
when burned by the sun,
earthy earth,
sip me all
when runoff on
sharp-bright
crispy skin.

Drink me,
deeper, and deeper
into his colourful roots
where dryness cheers
humusy kisses,
shower his face with
tender driblets of
sweet promises and
roses will never fade away
on his chest, 
in the midday,

Burn the rain down where the secrets are,
where the trees and large bushes survive,
and high winds have only one way.

I’ll take rainy droplets away
and fall over again when his
Burned by the sun,
Waiting in the middle of the day,
Nowhere to go,
But hiding in the rain when
Burned by the sun.

Arid soil,

Clogging intercellular space

with habits of frozen lips,

and traps of death skin,

fine design camouflaged

in photonic crystals

refracting sun rays on fish’s scales,

solidified tears

in hail-stone milky rings

Colliding up and down

on dry bone scale

tempting to mould

the scaly topography.