When; winter does wrestle death..? Snow lies falling with petals bereft. Her mantle a meadows white lily Uprooting stars in heavens pity. Veils of fine silk they’re too spun to order…
The garden is a living cell A Monet' of color and still reflection! Its life is onwards moving… But still like the sun forever in dusk or dawn: A theatre of hearts beating as one!
…Unnerve mine-eye. That I might see! That hand that stirs... Upon an unequivocal; sky and sea… Lead me through thy lowly pastoral gate. Lest this nomad’s world; does not abate.
He touched me firstly in the sunlight… I touched him secondly on that moonlit night. Thirdly; he then touched that red velvet velour. It was then I’d lost count and we sang, amour…
