It counts the Moment,
where a little Light goes out to You,
thinking feels true.
In a strange Place.
Like a Room full of Grace.
Tickling Feet walk on your Skin.
Wet, cold Drops slide down your Back thin,
the Tempo of your breath is reflected as a white Shadow,
on a crystal clear Window.
Dripping warm Rain falls gently on your Head,
your Eyes are closed,
you see white Clouds are passing by,
over a pale blue Sky,
forgot the badest things,
what moves you the most.
Suddenly everything happens in a slow Time of Mind
and seems to be the other Way around.
It seems like a pulling suction, full of Shine.
The cold drops run upwards over your Back,
the little Feet run backwards,
on your Neck.
The drizzling, trickling Rain fall,
like a light Mind Wall.
From the Ground over your Nape to your Head.
Finds itself evaporates again,
in the blue four-poster Bed,
But individual warm Drops are too strong
and fall on the closing Eyes,
over the Face along.
How beautiful could one Press,
on repetition of Happ