A SPLENDID STORY TO TELL

It has been fairly germane

To be in romance with yourself;

Like someone has a splendid story to tell

Something that can lure the crowds.

But mobs will never know

What the tree behind fences had to say to me in autumn,

As what did the fishpond complain to me when the rains were over,

And what the crimson of evening moans

Every day, after twilight.

Life always has some outlandish gifts;

Like the fluffs of snow;

When it’s really bizarre as winter.

As the sunshine in morning,

When the dawn didn’t follow the night.

Dew of the late dusk;

When wind blew the fire.

These are us who accrue the dew drops

Photograph the yellowness of mustard fields

To cherish into our memories

To give and take instances

Since it’s all about the oeuvres which we go through.

So, no matter what;

You keep heeding

To all these magical heralds

Because they set you free

To think and to redeem

To make an idea about life

Because it’s your life

And nobody will help you in this ghastly struggle.