Wax wriggles down,
Melting some time.
Far off, a train chugs,
Into the mountains.
Rupturing bark,erodes
itself. The storm withers,
A howl sets in.
Dull echoes of last
Goodbyes. Faint memories
of lost struggles.
Silver lines, fairy tales,
A flute plays far away.
Holy winds, misty dales,
Whitey doves fly and play.
Streaks of Prussian skies,
Paint the window panes.
Memories of coffee brew,and
Laughter down the lanes.
An epoch of happy feats,
Sound of elated heart beats.
Moments flee day by day,
Nothing to trap,
Nothing to nail.
Revive the days,
Put on a smile,
and just move on,
Living the day.
Melting some time.
Far off, a train chugs,
Into the mountains.
Rupturing bark,erodes
itself. The storm withers,
A howl sets in.
Dull echoes of last
Goodbyes. Faint memories
of lost struggles.
Silver lines, fairy tales,
A flute plays far away.
Holy winds, misty dales,
Whitey doves fly and play.
Streaks of Prussian skies,
Paint the window panes.
Memories of coffee brew,and
Laughter down the lanes.
An epoch of happy feats,
Sound of elated heart beats.
Moments flee day by day,
Nothing to trap,
Nothing to nail.
Revive the days,
Put on a smile,
and just move on,
Living the day.
My personal favourite - 'nothing to trap, nothing to nail' ;) Nice work !!
ReplyDeleteThank you :)
DeleteIt might seem surprising, but I am reminded of a boyhood memory of the exiled Russian writer Nobokov,
ReplyDelete"On a summer morning, in the legendary Russia of my boyhood, my first glance upon awakening was for the chink between the white inner shutters. If it disclosed a watery pallor, one had better not open them at all, and so be spared the sight of a sullen day sitting for its picture in a puddle. . . . But if the chink was a long glint of dewy brilliancy, then I made haste to have the window yield its treasure. With one blow, the room would be cleft into light and shade. The foliage of birches moving in the sun had the translucent green tone of grapes, and in contrast to this there was the dark velvet of fir trees against a blue of extraordinary intensity . . ."
But not all memories are pure happiness. History never permitted him to go back to his Russia
I agree, not all memories are pure happiness.
Delete