November the 1st. Gold leaves
Whisper their sentences through the blue chains of the wind.
I open a saint-john’s-bread.
Green apples,a stained quilt,
The black clock of the heavens reset in the future tense.
Salvation’s a simple thing.
November the 1st. Gold leaves
Whisper their sentences through the blue chains of the wind.
I open a saint-john’s-bread.
Green apples,a stained quilt,
The black clock of the heavens reset in the future tense.
Salvation’s a simple thing.
PoemWiki 评分
暂无评论 写评论