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This dawn, no sense calls him
tongue is not touching for taste,
skin is wet, touching snow
Sense is novel, open for you.
This noon, throat is thirsty
skin is sobbing, sweat by sun
brain is hurried, dumped by work
no sense is waiting for him.
This dusk, tired flesh and frame
dried skin, smell of sweat
brain is closing the eyes,
night is like a wife calling him.
This night, cells are resting
closed eyes, no outdoor scene
sense is screen, ready for a dream
night is the wife embracing him. |
