Blond nights

These are the magic blond nights,
made for living, not for sleeping.
Amidala is lying in the front door opening,
gazing at her alleged sister on the left house corner.
I am walking barefoot all day, wearing only gloves, while gathering giant snails in the garden.
Glad I'm not a Buddhist, or all my flowers would have been eaten by those beasts.
In writing moment, 03.20 a.m. the dawn has long begun and the birds are already singing.

I'd like to share one of my favorite poems once more.

Music when Soft Voices Die (To --)

By Percy Bysshe Shelley

   Music, when soft voices die,

Vibrates in the memory—

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,

Live within the sense they quicken.

   Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,

Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,

Love itself shall slumber on.

Good night, world.

Water, water

Waiting for the bus to bring us out of the far outskirts of Dublin,

all I could think of was water.

Frankie Lane kept singing in my head,

All day I've faced the barren waste,
Without the taste of water:
Cool water. (Water.)
Old Dan and I, with throats burned dry,
An' souls that cry for water: (Water.)
Cool, (Water.)
Clear, (Water.)
Water. (Water.) 

Magical Mystery Teacher is hosting Ruby Tuesday 2 together with Gemma Wiseman