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The soul is weaving
A
voice out of wind threads,
He grasps at the forehead of a gray bolder,
She is wrapping him northwards
He is devitalizing love.
The origin of passion……….
A
secret screened by mysteries ,
A
cold water that
Mounts to the back,
An overpowering torture,
An ecstasy that clutches at the verge of soul mirrors,
A
whim that sketches steps,
The very foot is lusting after,
A
cold that
Relates the flames of moaning.
The origin of passion………
An affliction that
Turns honey spittle,
An eye that goes astray with the gray odor,
A
parting that entitles distance.
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