With a subtle difference in thought,
she travels with time,
flies with the moon;
and floats with the dragons.
She's a woman of forgotten centuries,
a woman of holy wars,
and violet visions.
A girl of gentle curiosity.
Her hair flutters in the air,
like the golden histories that,
tell a tale of silver mysteries,
of mystical nymph and hollow sand dunes.
She is built by lengthy tunes of the sitar,
and the humble strike of the church bell.
She is surrounded by metallic trees,
and void walls.
It's like the honey dew on the dead corpse.
The killer smile on the vivacious lips,
and the red senses that murder theories.
It's about abstract pragmatism.
She's a modern day witch.
She works with cracked bulbs and molten ash.
Her thoughts are nude and volatile.
Her talks are of old streets and new wine.
She's of the third kind.
The one that slices temptations of the blue mind.
It's also about the one that rule the planets,
the other planets.
She races against the old horses,
which saw many crusades on the desert.
These were summer wars,
fought in the evil winter.
These are not stories or rumours.
These are women who ruled the smoked world.
They rode men with great fantasies.
These were men of the summer land.
She had breasts that smelled of light poison.
She had the vigour that made the adams die,
who later rose under the sand,the hollow sand;
and drank the water that floated.
The wind that blew in the heavy air;
carried with itslef a spirit of envy.
The women,the men and them.
It's the wind of civilization.
She ain't any Cleopatra,
niether the slain Joan of Arc,
or the horrible witches of Shakespeare.
She is unique.
Alcohol percolates her senses,
and the drink of glory,
entwines herself with what the Romans;
called Breast in heaven.
She also visits abandoned forts and grey forests,
that once bowed to the horrible fire.
She is a girl,she is a woman.
She is you.
