Dear April, now that you have returned to me.
Enamoured of your poesy I am still here.
Now the beaches eat more sand and on the other hand.
You run at the touch of the sea and giggle at me.
Only you are cognizant of what you make of me.
A Liar, a deluded being in dreams we talked of, to the moon.
You perch to the right spots,
and that goes for the both of your natures.
Influencing as they please.
Often I come across the Junes and the Mays.
But I know now since I have lived as a December.
That only the poems of April are the ones I feel.
(The Stories beneath the eyes)
What does the Pretty Lily’s fragrance do to the Might Wind?
Gushing through the spaces in between
The Lily’s linen petals-The crown of Nature’s dreams.
Does she commingle?
Or tantalize the Mighty to bring him to his knees?
The Mighty Wind is stubborn too.
Rummaging the lands, the seas and the seasons
As lovers often do.
The Cerulean of the Nature knows,
For the Mighty,
The Lily, whenever she comes
Offers her fragrance too.
(The Stories beneath the eyes.)