Mountains are not far away
From the valley I can smell the snow
The grass here refuses to sway
While the fir up there takes a bow.
A distant song of the nightingale
Echoes across the ridges and the vales.
I shall rest here today,
With colors as even sun plays.
The raucous creek is noisily profound
I dream it to be silent up there.
Where the fairies fly high and unbound,
Secluded from malicious leers.
The dew confuses me with the grass
Cleaner than any crystal glass.
To the blades, the drops are bound
Like a king newly crowned.
The night is escorted by its playful mates
The mist floats down like a troop of ghosts.
The moon appears behind the horizon’s gates
While the breeze raises its welcome toast.
They conspire amid the howls and the hoots
Forbidding trees to either blossom or fruit
Mournfully, yet so, the grasshopper grates
Eluding the judgment of its icy fate.
The dawn breaks with a joyful glee
Against a sky as clear as sapphire
The mist vanishes among the trees
And the poltergeist breeze begins to tire.
My trail is narrow, coarse and bleached
I smile to fill the silence of my speech.
The nightingale sings, again, so free
Her song echoes, for long, in me.
In The Cold of This Here Morning - picture source: https://za.pinterest.com/pin/200691727122515616/ I could take this car and go, speeding recklessly down highways, never stop, to get a...
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