Run My Lamb Run

The thick night was slowly falling over Vietnam.
Sparks caught the endless tones of the waves under the swinging raft.
We sat at the table, her and me.
My eye woke up the constant glow of the phone,
That lamb called.
Her breasts went down and up,
as deep sighs turned themselves into pearls, in the throat.

Before that day, under the azure sky melted balm,
I felt her hard palm over my shoulder staves.
The night ink relived the craft,
she will come, tell her to not come.

Now, her lashes ponds reached the last light of calm,
into the darkness deep down.
She did not notice me,
I gazed into my flying moth.

Run, my lamb, run,
from the knives of the cotton castles,
the dusk towers of which stone on the stone does not rest,
and the dust on the lips,
over the harvested daffodils,
towards singing chants of village girls,
above the path of dried apricots