Your Words Sing beautifully in my silent room touching every corner of personal dust & distrust and they have such slender hands that put the noisy world eventually to sleep They want light They tell stories in the deep of my night: silly man at the foot of the hill, childhood, love letters that you never sent . . . . Love is a road at dawn, foggy and chilly covered with strange sound of the sleeping forest: Where? Where? Here? Hold me tight! She said, I'm cold. :3/31/05 [morning sun is sticking its head into my window begging for water]
