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

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