Frederick Piņa
Written by: Frederick Pina
Dearest, how you sit, still and moved by windsLove is a magic, a word inside, for the lost lipscrawl at the roots, mimic me rose, but the greenone, wants a dove, to say, to heal, heal, the tearfrom a sky, left, endurance, black as the earth.
Copyright (C) 2006 by Frederick Pina
