Hyperallergic

We love the sun in the mountains
Being hyperallergic to afternoons.
We pray to him below moustache.

We get copper coins on our skins
Emblems that are his tiny tattoos
We are hyper to , he ultra about.

His morning’s light is soft delight
His mountain gold is poet’s love.
But adult one gets a little rough.

We pray to him to turn old soon
And die quickly in the mountains
So he is born and stays that way.

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