On Naked Paper

Smitten by your holy
tongue, the muse melts
in the raging sun.

There was a deep
gorge between the hills.
My face turns blue.

Trembling hands will knit
splendent wreath for a
departing moon.On Naked Paper

Smitten by your holy
tongue, the muse melts
in the raging sun.

There was a deep
gorge between the hills.
My face turns blue.

Trembling hands will knit
splendent wreath for a
departing moon.