I pick white holes in it I tread with my chilled to the marrow hands
on the flatlands of your lips
and I couldn’t stop marvelling
at the moves of your shoulders
so close yet so far
muse of my shortened days
the winter will be over some day
and the world will grey become again
as this all I just imagine
in my head it was born
and it won't for real happen
no matter how much will I flex
and torn the world on the left side
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