Why you do not paint,
when I write
silk pale purple lacesIn our mirror's room
lightly spin the lipstick over lips
the colour overripe cherries
and lean them on the mouthpieces of Parisian long avenues
let go the sound of heels
through the music of the Balkan gipsies
and whisper my name in the fields of the rice
To hear the secret land hidden by black horses thunder
under chequered canvas
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