воскресенье, марта 27, 2005

The tactful cactus by your window

Surveys the prairie of your room
The mobile spins to its collision
Clara puts her head between her paws
They've opened shops down on the West side
Will all the cacti find a home
But the key to the city
Is in the sun that pins the branches to the sky.

"Eight Line Poem"
David Bowie
1971

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