The Trace

alone-again

Sitting at the window sill,
Looking at the drench branch
of spring tree hill.
All those wrinkled wooden logs
slides me,
to you for me and every nature I see.

Impalpable you become,
And me Just a Rampant of day
Little by little our heart moved away.
I feel like drugged
In the solemn lake of our trace.

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