Your skin, the sun’s own manuscript in gold,
the way I’ve endlessly been dreaming of.
Your neck hums with the aroma of home,
with the pastoral call of a shepherd’s horn.
Am I invited to your hair’s garden, dear?
Where my hands, like leaves, drift, tremble, drown.
Your voice — a breeze that carries summer’s theme,
the blessing of gods blown all around.
I count the times you let me trace your waist,
your spine, your… : Nature has such good taste
in you. It spins me, every time, in a daze.
Now the twilight’s howl sharpens muted haste.
The horizon bleeds — a warring hue.
Is it the dawn… or fire chasing you?
Your skin, the sun s own manuscript in gold...
© Copyright: Анна Аион, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126050904986
Свидетельство о публикации №126050904986
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