Mr. K

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miƩrcoles, mayo 04, 2005

Fumbling

When a chilly wind turns up my collar,
To search for a fire to warm me,
I fumble in deep places of my heart.

When a lovely lady leaves behind her fragrance,
To reach for a memory to warn me,
I fumble in dim traces of my hurt.

Oh, however, I always
Like descending stories.
Someone holds her in his bosom,

Soaring up to the dark sky,
Sowing her in the dark sky,
Like ascending stars.