There are no droplets of
Wine on my lips,
But the blood of poetry,
Dripping in darkness.

I am a desert which
Was once an ocean;
Where I lie, hid treasure chests,
Deep inside the coral reef.

It is just me, you,
And an endless garden of daffodils.

How can spring not arrive
When butterflies hover
Around the arms you raise
Towards that blue mountain?

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