It’s time for sad muse

image

poetry
a music that continue
passes into the woods
shaken the trunks
of an almost dying old sycamore
it celebrates
the moment it move up and up
reaching the cheek of heaven
held its hand
like a father holding his son
when the moment it try to step
a first stride
the laughter and the tear of joy
that
now it looked down
did trees cries
as it throws its last glance
the entire forest
and was calm
a poem
knew how to observe
and doesn’t speak
even the birds
crickets
deer and the hunter
were
startled
it fell on the land
that stood might for quite sometime
now it’s time for sad muse
the roar of the dead sycamore
when it kisses the land
were like a shouts of a hysterical war soldiers
it echoes and move
through time
like a night bird
that hovered into the ocean.

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