I
not the wind,
but the windowsill whistles
a refrain of rustling foliage
and weak tunes of nighttime
and weather
II
an orchestra births
from your mouth -
a breeze in this room
waltzes with your velum,
dwells over your lips
and hauntingly clings
to my ears
III
I might as well stare
at the naked moon
and watch the clouds
billow underneath her,
as the pines bend humbly
to applaud the concert
of serene sighs
and mumbled music
IV
not the wind,
but your voice colours
the back of my eyelids









She's just a few hours old on that picture, now she's 6 months and two weeks 



















-> see 















72 old applause
