Poems August Running

Mar Rufe On Ceto Om'

Mar rufe on ceto om,'
every day in a room on a sofa,
the light skipped hopped
around the eamed dark;
a self except
a guest in sun;
he's now gone.   
the branches see the way.
he's in his mood;
gone away in a book.
serves you cold;
ervies awake away;
my thinking of him
coming home in a sense;
cause for a life together,
four hours before,
the most I hear is powder.
he's in the room
from three 'till one;
stays none.
say unser afresh;
x l rao in Ehre;
hours to
you my pure boyfriend;
conversation,
then off to somewhere.