The seraphim song
Like a gift from the Eden
That hides between the letters
Of words we'll never knowA warm wind blows
From the dark side
Of a moonbeam
That settles on the carpetThe overcast yields
A brief peak
Of caramel rivers
That flow as if from fictionPut a clock upon a perch
And let it paint a thousand worlds
In the echos
Of the second handHow many colors cry
That we may never know them
Trapped behind a ray of sun
That settles on the carpet