Lost as the list that the wind
Whipped from a hand
And dropped
in a puddle.
That the author,
In a foreign land,
Holds in their mind,
Repeating and repeating,
Until it becomes a song.
Being Here It’s ghia here in Kelter There’s nothing to filter the water is lovely It’s clear that here is wild and pure And Nobody owns h...
No comments:
Post a Comment