Oh, how perfect death
Computes an orange wind
that glows from your footsteps,
and you stop to die in
an orchard where the harvest
fills the stars
 |
| From man eaters of the sex jungle, misch |
23.9.08
Poetry; Richard Brautigan
Oranges
Oh, how perfect death
Computes an orange wind
that glows from your footsteps,
and you stop to die in
an orchard where the harvest
fills the stars
Oh, how perfect death
Computes an orange wind
that glows from your footsteps,
and you stop to die in
an orchard where the harvest
fills the stars
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