Oft, when the breeze flows silently past,
And the dead leaves lying on the cracked ground,
Brush against each other, blowing the purity away;
I walk along the leaf corpses, enshrouded by memories,
Their silent crackling voicing my wordless sorrow,
My yesterday, my tomorrow!
A million voices cry in my mind, all strangled by me,
And only their muffled noise reaches the tearless world,
The graveyard that left me alone!
I had been only the wind yesterday, (ne’er the rose,)
And the flute must have enchanted me.
But, maybe I was no wind, and maybe, there was no flute!
Illusion or not, what cares have I,
While I walk along the beautiful autumnal listeners!!!
daft thou skill with thy pen for virtousity and poetry never mingle and in thy i see an aberration... hope it becomes an exception..
ReplyDeleteMerci, Monsieur.... :) :)
ReplyDelete