Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Cold

It’s cold

I remember the sun, caressing high at noon
The laugh of children, the smell of spring
And then the pass of age, wings grow large
When nations sink with glory anew
Their laughter end, lines are cut
Not much remains, a fine line, a reminder
Here, at the high tree at noon, I wait

My shadow fading, nine to twelve o clock

Death does not always mean change

The city changes and I feel nostalgia, I am starting to understand why it becomes such a big thing when one grows up and sees everything s...