Where there's no scent of mother, but only a sweet sense of comfort in the touch I remember the warmth of my mother's lap
I jump from ship to ship, / fly dangling from the claws of a huge bird in the sky / till my toes scrape mountain-tips.
Wishing you a happy new year! / The coming year? No, years ahead—
It’s been so long since we last spoke that I don’t think I can talk to you without confessing something. There you were, standing before me
When I come to you, I become a tree Trees have roots
My heart is an oligarch: A staunch, pot-bellied, knuckle-cracking middle-aged man lounging carelessly, lazily in his sitting room with his limbs spread out on a settee
The first pulse, in the midst of a whipping maelstrom,
I jump from ship to ship, / fly dangling from the claws of a huge bird in the sky / till my toes scrape mountain-tips.
Where there's no scent of mother, but only a sweet sense of comfort in the touch I remember the warmth of my mother's lap
It’s been so long since we last spoke that I don’t think I can talk to you without confessing something. There you were, standing before me
Wishing you a happy new year! / The coming year? No, years ahead—
When I come to you, I become a tree Trees have roots
My heart is an oligarch: A staunch, pot-bellied, knuckle-cracking middle-aged man lounging carelessly, lazily in his sitting room with his limbs spread out on a settee
The first pulse, in the midst of a whipping maelstrom,
