Maybe life is all about twirling under one of those midnight skies, cutting a swathe through the breeze and gently closing your eyes.
Sometimes in the evening on Summer days,Even when there’s not a breeze at all, it seemsLike there’s a light breeze blowing for a minuteBut the trees are unmovingIn every leaf of their leavesAnd our feelings...
A stream of primal voicesWhispering in the breeze of your heartTo urge you on.
We made love like two trees on a breezeless day. Neither one of us moved for hours.
We both just stood there. I let the breeze brush against my skin, the sun release the tension in my muscles. It was as close as I had felt to God in a long time....
I gather the last remnants of the evening’s breeze, so cool and lazy within my arms, feeling it curl up like a small and innocent kitten.
Close your eyes and turn your face into the wind.Feel it sweep along your skin in an invisible ocean of exultation.Suddenly, you know you are alive.
The harmonica has musical wind, and is the breath of soul. It’s like a sad, lonely I love you lost in the breeze.
I want you to crave the crisp ocean breezeas much as I do.I want your soul to beas rain-swept as mine.
I listen to the sound of India’s voices for the last time . Laughter ripples like water . A prayer is a single note held long . There is so much life here . And...
There are people in the world, who are just wrong, and then there are the masses of population that are right, or at the very least they lie in the veil of between. I on...
Breezy daysdeserve the unionof two old friends.
A breeze, a forgotten summer, a smile, all can fit into a storefront window.
I guess I felt attached to my weakness. My pain and suffering too. Summer light, the smell of a breeze, the sound of cicadas – if I like these things, why should I apologize?
I love the sound of the trees in the breeze. If the forest is so clearly musical, why can’t it play the guitar while I sing Nirvana covers?
Happy is the man who enjoy warmth of the sun and refresh in the breeze, who is secure within and say I have lived to-day.
May youalways haveopenbreezy spacesin your mind.
A helicopter is just like a flying ceiling fan. My love is the journey of the breeze.
If lighthouse becomes a burning candle, flickered upon ocean’s insanity.Your sailing heart there anchors to handle the obsessed breeze towards sand dune’s vanity.
sometimes i don’t know, which momentwhich cool gust of wind will come,and enchant metousling my hairand my heart, stirring…that familiar ache of poetry, which drop will kissthe old wrench in my soulreminding me, all over...
If I waste all my charity, all I’ll wind up with in the end is the wind. Still, I think I want to be the Dandelion of Love.
From the way his face lit with curiosity to the slight tilt of his jaw, even the lingering scent of brine and breeze gave him away.
A persistent breeze lifted the thin curtains, fluttering a few moments of tranquility into the turbulent day.
whispering wind.” But what are these secrets of the breeze? I don’t know, but I don’t want a gossip to stand downwind of me.
I love the quietude of misty dawn before the sober sun is up… The morning songs of birds awakening in blooming garden sets my soul gently… Aroma flowers with glistering of the dew… Deep full...
I am bound to her with cables that not even God can break. One day, if there is a soft breeze on her cheek, it may be my breath; one night, if the cool wind...
The sky smashed into my face, but I didn’t say anything, because aside from a warm breeze, I didn’t feel anything.
The art of sensuality encompassing the exploration and experiencing of all our senses… Those images are being born from and through living the moments of eating favorite chocolate cake with ice-cream, tranquil meditating, walking the...
… If the dead can come back to this earth and move unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night—amidst your happiest scenes...
The wind held the door open for me, and I appreciated it. Who knew the breeze was such a southern gentleman?
On the edge of dreaming when the brain lets go, when it stops its scheming, our blood runs slow… Then the heart speaks clearly of the things it knows, things it brought so dearly at...
I am sad, like the hot dust on the streetsAnd the music of fresh fallen leavesCaught in a sliding summer breeze.
Like a statue, I’m hairless. Also like a statue, I have hair. Let’s make love like a dandelion goes bald in the breeze.
They have a fine breeze and are now we hope, well on their way.
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