Tuesday, December 9


Legends told in rising suns hear nightingales cry in the dawn;
The backbones of surrounding hills release themselves in shuddering yawns.

Blood of ages sear the sky as sweeping sand dunes glitter gold;
Eyes of strangers soak up light and reflect yearnings young and old.

In the distance, mountains merge with hazes gray and frosted stone;
There is no mem’ry in any age of stealing the story for one’s own.

No comments:

Post a Comment