Firenze

Vanilla dust scrapes the creamy surface.

I guess I'm still searching,

above thousands, white-headed.

The land oils the hands that work the harvest under a heavy sun,

but the eagle sets off.

Barely elsewhere.

On-his-own.

Do I find you here?

I am stirring the sun.

I AM STIRRING THE SUN.

I AM STIRRING THE SUN.

I blend

with a

gloomy

sun.

What is a human?

When is enough?

I am stirring the sun.

Heart-stirring the sun.

Perhaps it is me the one I should find first.

The yellow of the sun,

not to be confused with betrayal: the eagle bursted. (off).

A breeze stirred the leaves.

I can't help but wonder...

Somehow elsewhere I might find me.

What is that, I don't know.

What do I feel

Sun, I didn't feel.

A dull leaf that stirred with the wind got lost and flew,

from beginning to end

above white-headed

calves down

Treasures inland...

The knees fell as the sword hit the ground.

Sadness inland, the kingdom I thought I could call my own vanished.

I am scared and lonely.