the bell

12 July 2009

Scratched in the heart’s scab,
grey of cold nights.
With tear-wet sleeves,
I whipe the dreams in which I’ll sleep.

If my writting would be,
A voice...
It would whisper while you rest
Nothing that can be said,
Like a watergame,
Through tall waves
When I reach my arm from depths,
Know how to hold my hand!
I won’t give you all, but a finger.

Like a crust over a wound
A bee over a flower,
You want to protect me
The kiss we share to be sweet polen.

2 comentarii:

  1. Cercelus!
    Oo... de cand n-am mai vazut o astfel de floare... Superb!
    Am avut o astfel de floare candva, in copilarie...
    Mi-ai adus aminte de copilarie.

    1. Le-am cumparat de la piata anul acesta.
      Sincera sa fiu, nu stiam de ele :P le aflu pe parcurs, acum ca ne-am mutat la casa. Cand eram copil, nu prea imi placeau florile :)) in schimb eram inebunita dupa animale, sa ma joc cu ele.
      Ma bucur ca ti-am amintit de ceva asa frumos.
      Pupici multi!