Toujours

Always, my golden muse of subtle secret entertaining If comes, it is not my fault to see her even in the soup; It seems you stealthily descended from a famous painting Of the same blond season of hope caught in a magic hoop. First, the leg, long and discreet barefoot touches the carpet, Then, the feline jump in the pantry, and I pretend to be asleep, And the only verse that comes to my mind and I can set, With big eyes and a look dumb so happy digging deep. It is an attempt to touch her, this unwritten poem with blue eyes… I want her danced or her shoulder strap silently slipped somewhat, But, only the echo sounds as your name, I repeat countless times. Each morning, I find her footprints remained everywhere, but… The poet`s hot tea is there, next the morning` embers; Someone sipped a bit from it, perhaps the morning star: Here's the lipstick trace, and -I think the perfume is hers. She also tasted from my pretzel and the rhyme. I know you are…