Trees blacks against the frozen snow, fog creeping under heaven
winter.
Time that flees,
men who vanish into the void of the day,
while we still seek a sense of our long journey.
because I chase, as the
accumulate.
But the final question remains:
my purpose?
Languid words write stories evanescent.
Lomnago Bodio, 18 January 2009.
0 comments:
Post a Comment