summer in your arms
What can be done, when the soul is lead ahead of the seasons like if's a locomotive full of buds? What can be done, when the heart breathes the rainbows even if outside, the snowflakes are still dancing? Where to direct them, when the blood boils into the veins and the feeling is as if something stumbling them in a landscape with a wind of summer choked in some stalking gazes? Why when so many butterflies are flattering in the dew of the moon, the sentiment is as if are caught in a frozen light? How many questions are necessary when in me, you're already the favorite season out of thousands of dreams, and me, like a flake, in summer, in your arms, melted
