As the unbothered wind which brushes on my face exists freely,
with the ground as witness,
To the flowers which blossoms on each garden,
relentlessly bound to their unchangable fate.
as cruel the first break of winter is,
when the leaves leave their home,
to embark on a journey towards their end.
The red sparkles which die slowly,
on a beautiful moonless night,
dark enough for the light to wither in the sky.

And at dawn, when the moon shall conceal itself,
giving the sun a chance to shine brightly.
On a peaceful summer's day, ...


© nosihlekatherine