Wish
T Tom Billsborough
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Only your warm heart and nothing more.
My paradise would be a field
With no nightingale or lyre
With an unassuming river
And a small fountain there.
Without a spur of wind over the foliage
Or a star pretending to be a leaf.
A great light, glow-worm of another,
In a field of broken glances.
A serene rest, where our kisses,
Resounding specks of the echo
Would open far away.
And your warm heart, nothing more.
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