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