On the first day, you were a shadow at the bottom of the alley, behind the boxwood, behind the green dream of Ladan, somewhere between the two birthdays, the second day you were a letter, a letter made of sequins, the red perfume of tulips, you were a thin apple, a sugar apple, what days devoid of hatred, jealousy, or oxygen-filled air, habit, or the nights of all the heartache of dawn, or the sound of the full or empty notes, the
third day, the day of playing, full or empty, and the stone and glass of your trunk, crisp and fresh, fear. I am afraid always on the fourth day of the scribbled notebook of the dawn of the ink of the moonrang of the body of the flower The fifth day of the kiss of the season to the star Going with a hazy and fragrant look of your feet and counting the sixth day of me and you The day of the creation of this song The explosion of the river and the forest The explosion of this song What
days devoid of hatred of jealousy or the oxygenated air of habit or the nights of all the heartache of dawn What a full voice Stretched notes,
days devoid of hatred, jealousy , the oxygenated air of habit, or the nights of all the longing of the dawn, or the sound of the full notes of the elongated notes.
