Troubadour
Time falters, waning are the seas.
Between the canticle of the birds
And the silent weeping of the trees
Lies the whisper of the scrolls;
Record of all who have come and gone
In the living proof of the scrolls...
Sands of rain, the soft droplets of dew
Fall through barriers of green leaves,
Fresh in their essence and shade anew.
Curtains of mist part for the droplets’ path
As they ripple the record of all who have come,
Ripple in history’s living path.
Charred grasses await of the droplet a taste
To ease gruesome pains afflicted long ago
Of which left these grounds forevermore chaste,
Mourning in their morbid fate, held between
Dying and living, shade of sickly brown,
Of shadowed black... as is written in all between.
From everywhere gone are the woods and the sea,
Vibrant life, flourished rain, trees whispering
To those of the forest in anonymity.
What has come to pass here, these callous atrocities,
Is written so deep and despairingly
In the living scar of Man’s atrocities...
Now this one lofty willow tree,
Its leaves wetted with the last of rain,
Is all that is left, now gone is of sea
And land their graceful beauty of life.
Nature stands alone in this barren land of loss
Writing the living proof of life.
Scribing history as it passes,
Nature watches in despair, from
beginning of time, til time turns to ashes
Nature etches of itself world’s time in scrolls;
The Troubadour of our chronicles;
Of Earth, its living scrolls...
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