![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglpIOgMGkT8611QMaI1MZX2GLs3Op0KCyqeVqBDU5cHj2DovAsZm5nkJvx2upnsYuvrVmkhjLfxEYL3woR0zM3SabhCdlen4J3y4qprKnqL1UXjXxrTrOvkyRqriSnKWQN-3W07XmWdyoO/s320/tamara-de-lempicka1.jpg)
The comfort of the reflected light on a mud colored shirt
Passing through the window
The smell of fresh morning bread;
While lying down in primitive thoughts
Passing by her;
She greets you with her wet hair
Her shy laugh,
That hides the defects;
Dreams die before they rise;
On a day, like this one
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