The saddest poem of all.
Cute druids fall from the trees,
when swans take off above the river
they flutter their wings.
Butts sing in the quiet bays of adolescence,
ejaculation on wooden piers
and moaning in the tents,
the humidity of the saturday nights,
the taste of the mouth alternating in the evening,
I stood with a bottle of wine in front of the stage,
the band was terrible and someone grabbed my shoulder,
I turned , She suddenly kissing me,
in the hall I had in my hand Her tongue and breast in mouth,
outside we leaned against a tree,
she took off my pants and said after a week: - So, we will continue ? -
I can't remember Her face.