Crying Of The Pen

Between me and the past There is a low wall. Sometimes i look over it Into the spirit of an uprooted hedge Which could not withstand the shepherd's anger. Now the abandoned cat which fled from the crowed Wanders there perplexed. Tired days Nodded their heads To the mountain pass, But it was not ended. Now is drowned in the dark night, The nightingale in the old walnut tree Cannot sing of life's lessons. Yesterday was a butterfly Which did not know the language of anguish. It read the lessons of mercy In the light of the candle. One night it wished to kiss the light But the flame consume it, Flaring white, Returning it to the district of the past.