Yet I don’t see slow motioned wings-5.11.2017

Clouds descend on grass grown wild,
Tall and grand, lush in hand.
They bend in air as man in prayer.
I?m weaving through, trying to get to you.

I?m running past birds of dawn,
They sing like heaven, they?re leading on.

/Marketa Irglowa/

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Zamyślenia