I Couldn't find her…





I Couldn't find her…

It's cold this in spring's fourth month,I search but cannot find her,
awake, asleep, thinking of her,
endlessly, endlessly,
turning, tossing from side to side.
A frayed fringe is the floating-heart,
left and right we pick it
The bloom is not a bloom,
The mist not mist.
At midnight she comes,
And goes again at dawn.
She comes like a spring dream - how long will she stay?
She goes like morning cloud, with a trace.
Deprived by fear.
Immersing  in doubt.
Grappling to be free.
Peering for a way out.


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