Morning Moon Подписаться

Packed are my trunks to the brink

With dreams and sleepless eyes

Still, the mind's eye wants to think

And thus wants to sever the ties

That bind the will to my love

East of the Sun.

In the land of plentiful pleasures,

The Buddha hovers on eaters of lotus

His lips dare not to lose focus

From spread dishes of treasure.

That build the road to be followed

North of the Sun.

In Winn's pages of state

The hero's feet the desert follow

Manat, the third, now all prostrate!

But still the crescent feels hollow,

Her edges sinking deep

West of the Sun.

The topic's thundering storm

Tears words to pieces and thunders

Remains the body yet born

In seas and landlocked blunders.

Yet I rule in everlasting burning

South of the Sun