strands of silk ebony
drew
dreams on my pillow yellow.
Steps are light and bare fell down the stairs, trapping
eyes to a beautiful body,
anxious for his return,
to be free to dream again.
The desire was dressed in his scent,
all others are evaporated,
although all the others is that my sense of smell. La Fortuna
call if he had a name even more beautiful,
but I dare not say it, no more,
for fear that it becomes just tell you,
new Proteus
and leave me in the eyes of deception '
image that there is more
because it is already different.
selfish desire,
not to give way to a deeper affection,
because they know that is expensive, sometimes too
.
red silk threads And flapping in the wind, as
lost memories frayed
no longer linked to the beloved faces, long gone, that
like kites in the sky blue eyes
intoxicated as a kid happy.
the same breath is a wind that carries dust and stubble
pronouncing that name, because it just says
announces birth and death.
And then I will not say more, but feeling it all the time,
like my own heart.
Tell me where is fancy bred, Or
in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nowrished?
Reply, reply
It is engender'd
in the eyes With gazing fed, and fancy dies In the cradle
Where It Lies:
Let us all ring fancy's knell;
I'll begin it. Ding dong, bell
Ding, dong, bell
.* * Tell me, where does the fantasy, in the heart or head? As you build, how it develops? Tell me, tell me.
eyed is generated, it is nourished from looking in the crib where he lives and dies. We play dead to the bell of the imagination. Ding-dong, ding-dong. (W. Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act III, Scene II).
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