...the shy unfold of an embrace...
how innocent (the way a rose is shy) the one that slowly bids a sun to smile and linger in the rising (just a while) to keep its light for one; and that is why their only secret is the silence (no reply or parlance will defy that bond) whose wiles are just the beads of dew (just like a child whose morning-nascent tears have yet to dry) and oh how innocent the shy unfold of an embrace (the mother is the sun; the child just one small flower) whose dying cold is just the birth of youthful warmth; so must the innocence be fragile and the run of time will break all innocence to dust.
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coqdorysme) wrote,
