(Jiřinka Mignonka , 06.02.2014 , miniaturahricka)

A song sings a mockingbird
heard by purple softness of your lips
that sleeps at midnight mooring.
I´m pouring a glass of wine.

Succulence of clementines
twinkle in your eyes necessary nicely
as a cocoa-brown loam.
Foam of truth in this evening
makes my soul keep weeping
like a mockingbird on the ash tree tripping.