Night, and once again the day.
The bloom is over.
The streets with
a whispered sigh,
shoot into the sky
like a rocket.
No longer singing
their mournful song.
In a life pocket,
the birds become human.
I think I will join them.
The only living boy
Night, and once again the day.
The bloom is over.
The streets with
a whispered sigh,
shoot into the sky
like a rocket.
No longer singing
their mournful song.
In a life pocket,
the birds become human.
I think I will join them.
A Wandering Poet 