My Picture

Leaves fall with sounds
as the years go by,
still with passion and movement.
And I write of future nostalgia
and lingering fears,
to be left for a thousand years.

Bucolic words remain unfinished.
As shepherds no longer devoted
to their sheep, order the children in line
for the next prize giving.
The sowing season has been missed again,
passing away with sincere emotion.

It’s an endless road.
For every sunrise and sunset,
there is a dark night.
A house where it all began
effortlessly, languidly…..it flows.
Just right, for eternal
commemoration and grand theater.