Behind the tulips bench, but to me a snow rose. And her love whisper piercing me like a nail. In front of the bench fountains. And the cold is wet. She leaves my hand, going, going to the water. And with his full hand, she comes back to me again. Snow rose and tulips, I-a wet maple. Summer night and bench empty, we're walking home. And the tulips are irritated shrink their throats.
