In the clock-tick of the ashy main scent of sleep
or the silky touch of dear solitude,
one teardrop rises my sand,
and your embrace trough my thoughts flies.
Then all my desires, dreams dance
in their longing, soft, ball.
And sleepy white pigeons wake up
with a song about that lily delight
If I then listen to the paths of my forest deep
I will feel the whisper of the leaves,
These are your eyes coming furtively
in which the warm fire is crackling.
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