A quick glance.
Please, throw water on your flowers.
They are collapsing.
Aren't they?
The howling of winds is wowing at night.
Hauntingly.
The pictures in my mind about tone of voice are ghostly.
Not hostlile anyway.
Suddenly an old machine drops on my foot.
Whose machine shoots?
Where does the wind come from?
The wolves enjoy the heaven's golfs.
A while later the same place breathes slower.
I can see the scenery on my right.
After powing my chest,
the upper air rest.
The flowers are climbing on the fence.
Hence, I suppose,
the wolves' golf has ended.
Outside at the dawn world is wonderul and whole.
At that sort time,
hear,
how to hold one's hand an another way,
without fear.
The happiest moment.
Silly of me,
however I pick one flower up.
A fifty – fifty chance to win.
The petals vanish to the wind.
A glimmer of hope limits straight line on the lips.
The living tips.
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