To Henry Miller
She floats to me towards, like a Jazz...
Defiantly jumps in my green back yard.
She's waltzing through the fence in Sunday morning.
I'm having cup of coffee with a joy.
My cigarette is melting far away.
I'm singing K.D. Lang with puffy smoking.
Just fly, my robin, fly, up to the sky
And bring me youth from 70-s "Convention".
"Oh, She is so beautiful !", - I'd say.
I'm looking at My Angel with delight
And watching her brown hair in the wind:
It flutters like white sails in the ocean.
Her eyes are calling me with sunshine light.
You came to me ! My Muse ! My Inspiration !
I've waited here so long for you
By dreaming in the late dark endless night.
I am playing you this Bossa Nova song
When sundown touches sunrise in the morning.
I'm making every sound like a craft
And stitch-by-stitch my melody is playing.
My voice is low and gentle, cricket's sound.
Oh, Bossa Nova... Portugal...Brazil...
My soul groans under Argentina...
Maracas and guitar are touching my heartbeat.
Hiroko Tokuda and Henry Miller, I
Became the captive of your "Water Colors" dreaming.
I wish I'd start the paintings by my heart.
He woke up at 3 o'clock, at once,
And cracked the shadows of imagination.
His timeworn brush was touched by magic hands.
Musician... Artist...Writer...All in One...
He's got so many talents in one person.
Why can't I take a brush and start explode
Myself upon the canvas on the cloud ?
Is Kundalini still asleep in my poor mind ?
Am I a frozen Snow Queen with no movement ?
Gomen-Nasai ! Please, forgive, My Muse !
I do not justify your expectations.
But I have hopes that, one-day or night,
I will wake up and take my brush and colors
And Bossa Nova will be dancing on the wall.
Black Canvas Capricorn... White Tropic of December...
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