My fingers are solid
Lost in a grappling storm
My age is getting older
As if unfriendly when I argue
The flow of breath is inhibited
Buried with dense dust
I, like a fine pebble in the waves of the ocean
Tub murky leaves thrown wind
The destination direction disappears
Including an increasingly dusk age
My dream is floated, ran aground on the deep river
Now I'm just floating in the current where the water flows
I hope someday
You came to meet me on the quiet street
Takes me to a beautiful haven of rugs