The Woman of Kunst Wet

Each Morning she hoped she would be waiting for her.

Ringlets of golden hair blow in the wind.
Her bending serpent rises from within.
The approaching vibration moves me in.
My position beside her comes again.

A smile, kiss, a hand upon my knee,
We become oblivious to our flee.
Want not to stop, love of said loves, should we.
Stopped at Kunst Wet, I must get off fore she.


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