Over the pasture on Friday, the Sun rises

Over the pasture on Friday, the Sun rises
to give the day its light. The simple houses
sit on the muddy ground, nothing will burn
because it's full of water. She puts blush
on her cheeks in the candle light, she moves her
eyelashes a little. I really, truly love

the way the dew falls on the grass, I love
the way the fog folds over fields and rises
into the dawn so softly. It's just like her
breath filling the room, I walk about the house
as if it were her form. She gives a blush
to my low singing, the cigarette burns

so quickly in the ash tray. I had burned
my thumb a couple times, my two eyes love
to get caught in the flames. When she blushes
it's like her skin is celebrating the rise
of oceans, suns and stars, her skin the house
of blood and love. I move closer to her

becoming more intoxicated, her
swift and dazzling curls have now been burned
into my mind. I wander past the houses
that others have abandoned, past the loves
that are no longer. Behind trees the rising
Moon lights up the night, first it's red-blush,

then yellow, then pure white. Her white skin blushed
when I moved closer to it, I put her
soft skin under my hands, the clouds are rising
with the thick heat. The car engine is burning
some gasoline, there is some song about love
playing on the radio in the house

that I can hear from outside. That's the house
that I grew up in, see the trees that blush
behind it? It's this plot of land I love
as if it were a woman, as if her
stomach and breasts were hills and vales. The burn
of day above lifts moisture, when she rises

from the waves, my love finds none but her
within the turning houses. She must blush
when I am burning like the rising Sun.