Times
P
Peter S. Quinn
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Times to come
in their distance ways,
flowers for some
as the time plays.
Wonderful hours
in everything giving,
bouquet of flowers
in the ways of living.
Times to show
rise up and be,
flowers that go
in their misery.
All that here is
making each worth,
epoch in the bliss
period in their birth.
Times of tomorrow
still not here,
past and its sorrow
futile somewhere.
All what's teeming
to make a rise,
in rivers streaming
of moment's surprise.
Bu şiiri puanla
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