This place with sounds
like feathered tears of crystals
silently hushing jingles.

A smell of soft moist,
when I breathe in,
my lungs reflect on
the tinkling touch
of blushing clouds.

While I`m blind:
this world of glittered voices
secretly signing contracts
of treasured moments,
this crunching sound of
wet ink on dry leafs.

The sound of wings
made of cob-web in waves,
and these songs like pearls
with reflections of rainbows,
when the wind swings
in a nostalgic mood,
and when they all stop
to listen to the stars
and to the future
they are building.

Air built up,
of World of Colors,
all my senses
push me backwards,
I am embraced
in the etheric fire,
the one that makes
your eyes
into illuminating


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