Why is it life so dear to us?
Why is it pure,magic and thus
Sparkling,hidden under mists of grass,
On the ground of sky
Lightened by the faithful moonly rye.
However absurd this definition seems
This is how I perceive it in my dreams:
As endless mask parades
With many intangible facades,
That run among and run within
The inner garden of the human sin
That run about and run away
To reach the Godly talk-the pray.
Some people say that life is parted
And that it has a season for every piece divided:
Poets see childhood as warm,calm springs
With rosy-flowers circling the souls as rings.
And say it is that gaiest time of May
But isn't there a SPRING in every day?
Others connect the summer with the teen
And think that sun,hot lands are to be seen
Only by young minds that like to meditate and lay
But isn't there a SUMMER all the way?
Still there are more that autumnly describe maturit
That link the ripefulness with a certain durity,
Resistence and faith in human heart
But isn't there an AUTUMN from the start?
White snow resembling old man's hair
Makes ones assume it is the winter's stair
That slowly leads us to the passing gate
But isn't there a WINTER in our fate?
Now life's seasons mingle in my mind
They turn around,reverse and bind.
And all I see is AUTUMN'S SPRING
That SUMMERY WINTER thus can bring.