"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
In my childhood,
Grass and masts stood at the shore.
When I lay there,
They all rose above me to the skies,
I couldn't tell them apart.
My mother's words were with me
Like a sandwich wraped in rustling paper.
And I didn't know when my faher would return,
For, beyond the cleaning in the forest, was another forest.
All thinngs stretched out their hands.
A bull gored the sun.
At night the streetlight stroked
My cheeks with the walls.
The moon, a big jar, bent over
And watered my thirsty sleep.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
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