Love, the murmurings of roots –
and life on an island.
Breathing and growing,
snatching this chance to flee.
Your eyes are bound to plum rain,
mine to blue flowers.
Stirred-up by your scent,
and sharp temptations.
The sky grows dim, through East.
Humbled, a booming sound –
a new realm far apart from us.
Love and words, a subsistence only.
A Wandering Poet 