the edges of her coat rested in her hand clench.
He sought peace in her Indian summer.
He heard her reproaching whisper.
And what we will do now?
Now, when I'm just a rock where you'd sleep the sweetest
in the withered spring of mine nest.
Seduced are, that your lips with some other vanillas,
from long ago my shoulders are not your pillows
and my leaves rustles do not wake up your gaze glow
Down the melodious golden plasma
Between his palms shed eternal icicles shine.
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