at least swift years are passing br nightingales identically are singing br in the process with voice br in the green clump, and love then again, br is decking itself with the May br br so that in the gift, you can give, br enchanted in strophes of poems, words, br you try into lake bulrushes to hide br and listen to the wind, what still anew, br with swinging, is caressing meadows. br br because you, you want to declare br what you feel to me. I know, that it is br usually difficult. more freely br it is writing, than it is saying. br you are bewitching on the marvellous lines, br into flowers. you are picking them for me, br br or you are buying.and not you are first, br and not you are last, which is sending br colour envelopes, what oneself, from your br confidences and declarations.it is browning, br shimmering with the fire being on fire br it are finding their way to me so that br br I feel your eyesight which includes br my waist. even though gently, still br I feel, as if sea wave affected me, br what is moving closer to the edge, br and isn't moving away br write...to me.