December rain sighed on the edge of the veranda
The crowd stopped at the old chair
Splashing thin water accompanied the dream conversation
The news of angels did not come to play the joy of the heart.
In a letter, the price of anxiety creeps slowly
Indeed, the secret of the thorns is grinning sharply
Count time no longer faded
Until soon finish the wounds in the list of hospitality trappers
Just to open the door
For longing to be bundled up in your name.
