Wind Harp
S Sandra Fowler
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November falls...
We walk through endless eras of gray leaves.
The mood, exhilarating to mind touch,
Is painting us on white panes of the air.
Wind plays its harp.
Life is a Psalm compelling, bittersweet.
Time holds us only by a whisper here.
Old glamour is as western as the sun.
You take my hand,
And tell me stories of a thousand dusks.
Your words light all the windows of my house.
Soul music, Friend, creates eternal sound.
For my November friend, Rajaram Ramachandran
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş