The whites of Siberia

When I was a child, birds gave me ideas,
In their flights of rows, towards the lake

When they looked white and glistening
Against the autumn sky, my fingernails

Clawing the air rhythmically and my lips
Calling them to infuse whites in my nails.

Those days birds would drop their whites
Directly in the behind of our fingernails.

Actually they were bringing these whites
From marshes of Siberia across the seas.

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