The Place

A place,
Where butterflies live on butter,
Where books survive open shutters;
Where music falls into poems,
Where meanings reveal themselves;
Where eyes sing melodious tunes
Where lovers don't go to sleep too soon;
Where mornings dwell on yesternights,
Where every soul dives and takes flight;
Where single sheets tie themselves up
Where untie and unite blend into a syrup;
Where a new song touches you ever so gently,
Where stags are allowed uncompromising entry;
Where a tide of the visiting west wind
Fills you with yourself, blows away the ruins -

May be that's where I will see you.

Singing to yourself.