Barefooted, slipping on clouds,
the raw and roaring sign
in her eyes and sighs,
bearing a young and loud,
dream,
she was five years old.
And the years like rings meant to be fold,
in trees and the steam,
yawned by planes',
departure.
The flatness that left over swam,
blankness braces a creature,
she was tender and breathing,
lightly yet vibrantly in,
crossing wings,
a butterfly's,
room no one has been invited,
or the secret dream will be in light,
where she has nowhere to fly.
YOU ARE READING
Tigress from the east
PoésieA poetry collection written by a Chinese girl. Biggest life goal of her: sitting in perfect balance of daylights and nights, back towards a mysterious naked tree, a cup of chai is better than coffee. Thinking, turn a being as living
