I will come often,
To wet
the roots of my soul.
Sifted,
Overgrown,
To fill life
In the root nerves of soul.
I will come often,
To redden
The Black blood of the
Wounded soil
By
Deeply
Sucking it out..
I will come often!
**
That became
The garden,
So wet,
Fully Dissolved,
All reddened,
Oh my
Gardener!
Now,
Is it you!
Is it you!
