We’ll run away from the strife,
Try to catch wind
In the webs of mint
And after to dive
To fall on the ground
And fall asleep,
Maybe our fingers are to clip
The outbreathen sounds.
We are runin’ not to stop
At once
For chance
Strait to the flop,
Unless the checkered cap ’ll roll
To be looked for till midnight
And dawns don’t know
That we ‘ re still kids
Inside
With our hand were tight
So they only forbid
To lay in the dampness for long,
To dance on the nettle prong
And look for lost cap embroidered with grid