She's the brightened violet stroke of a white canvas painter,

Her trembler eyelashes,the white orchids that grow in the river bank and nod in the December winds on a pristine,untamed garden.

She's an abstract portrait,

She's the wet marble floor footsteps which tiptoes back in the daydream on the late June evening from the silent lake.

The sun peeps from behind dark clouds,

The moonlight drips with happiness in her eyes' corner,

The scent of rain in the wind of the day

Dead stars,meteorites and planets come back to life

In her countless eyes' captured.

She's time slowing down,

Shed leaves over the soldiers' songs humming

The mystery of sadness,euphoria and gentle fingertips wallowed on piano keys

And it is my dream letter to her,

My sleepy goodnight touch.

She's the fragrance of metamorphosis from the old books

A little dream catcher hangs on the silver anklet around her crazy,little foot

And is music made by old letters with crumpled edges and smudged paint,clung with her hair by the open window overlooking the hills.

She's everything you didn't deserve,

She's everything you wasted

I'm going to give my existence to preserve.