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…
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