I flow into your shadow like a very delicate morning and I wander through the corridors of my longing for you, but I find nothing but the remnants of longing that devour me like a quick meal. This morning is bright like your memory, except that I stand there under that tree waiting for you like an ear of wheat, when you pass by with all your strange splendor and strange charm. I touch my heart to get closer to you, and I look into my eyes in the mirror to celebrate with your enchanting specter. This is how I live with your mornings that scatter in the place like grapes that are still in the age of roses.