View From My Window
Spring
Autumn
If only it were spring, I'd hear the beat,
of cold rain drops, and their tiny dancing feet;
they pick up strands of dusty bones,
and sing sad songs on broken xylephones.
The sky, a tremble of dark gray,
whispers lovingly to the wind: it is no longer day,
and here, here I am, one lonely friend,
with a heartfelt letter I must send,
as boats crash upon the waves of a stormy bay.
If only it were spring, I'd hear the beat,
of cold rain drops, and their tiny dancing feet;
they pick up strands of dusty bones,
and sing sad songs on broken xylephones.
The sky, a tremble of dark gray,
whispers lovingly to the wind: it is no longer day,
and here, here I am, one lonely friend,
with a heartfelt letter I must send,
as boats crash upon the waves of a stormy bay.
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Spring
Spring
