The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast-
The branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are,
And all this is folly to the world.
Poetry is not simply a combination of words written down but a window into other minds revealing their thoughts and desires
Permissions in this forum:
You cannot reply to topics in this forum