A child long ago was born,
In the lush tropics,
Where the breeze never ends,
Where the bird's chirps are a sign of:
The coming of the gods.
Seven was your day,
Five was your month,
Twenty-two was your year,
In the late spring,
Approaching the hot summer season,
In the warm Iberian Sea,
You are gone.
Have to remind myself like Norwegian Wood said:
On Sundays, I did not wind my spring.
Only loss of words,
And the pain I continue to live on,
Here and there,
Not always remembering it,
But it is always in my deep mind,
Trying to burst out one day.
YOU ARE READING
idle
Poetrynot the most perfect art piece of writing but i can guaranteed that every thoughts and feelings are being poured out.
