The touch of bright to surface of the dark Sends word of need for choice of different color When fallen petals on the rows of bound - Just ways for roaming along the paths of park. But looking for the trace - a treasure of one's time - Repeats in breathing - that is treasure primal - Not word when it is weapon of a lie But just a pit of apple which is fine. And for the mood, for strength to overcome All forms of expectation, rich to gain Its own weapon - native line of palm Reveals the heart to mix with garment's seine.