sheepish and fearful, — placed on the rib of a dream, a tree tries to put itself a new suit on its twigs a thread of sand feeling it, it began to ripple like a poem metamorphosing the view into a palpitating symphony subtle fragrances of the pink magnolias and pines kissed the spring's ambiance, budding it in a true story and me... i turned warmer, listening curiously to its light, orchestrated tenderly by a subtle moaning breeze

your poem... — your poem is a sinless mirror sculpting me all right in an ingenious fairy tale your poem waltzes me on the scene of lucidity using its own rationality to renovate my Eden your poem confers me constellations, sheens, and charming mysteries on full moon's corolla your poem is a sea of wine which kisses me with mandolin's voice in your (lumière bleue) your poem is my poem that i write it daily with nights' eyes to dream of me during the day