As the crow cries while my dove dies,
To that which a tear is of my river and of the land
Whereas are the mountains grows from the ocean of my blood.
I will not carry this samsonite filled of linens soaked of all my anxieties,
Which the past bled onto it and left me in all the stations from Oslo to Kyoto.
My destination would be you and loving you with all of me,
as you will toss my baggage over that Danube,
While my naked soul will be clothed not by our love,
While my third eye is poked,
Time would be our shelter,
Space and thoughts are our transportation,
Love be the guide.
®ohms, all works thereof