At the dawn when they lie

I dream of flying over the sky 

For till my last lingering 

And for till they are awaking 

I dream and I really die

For not the sphere hide in my pie 

I'm the human being 

At the dawn my telephone ring

A hundred died whereas a hundred sing

And, for was audience the firm King 

Oh! is bloody and a bloody spring 

By the evening...

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Oh! The panel and the inks I miss panned
And the dream that suspend, to meet the thrust!
Rather to engineer an odious trust
Alas! That shabby paint gone bust & burst

Hey, should I ever borrow?
A wild-wild path that confers sorrow
On the visage sketches furrow
'And the slumber that lifts to next morrow'  

Still I am missing the empty panel 
And am searching for an yeti's annal.

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On its way to next
By an era of rest
Makes the monster loiter
And hence birth of another text

Its sacred and curved hair
Wrinkled face to its phantom dear
A height of goddess feet of deer
All these are of a lady who is out
Of a phantom’s care

A fleshless bony fairy child
An aimless lovely feathery wild
Spotted green and yellow yet pink is mild
She, the fairy lady on ...

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