Cloudburst
How often do you notice the death of a single dream, Seeing the last drop dry up from its parched stream, But you don’t really mind, pronouncing not even a tiny scream, As if having anticipated they were all meant
Floodgates
Unlike the leaves of autumn, that see fit, to fall in only one season, Very unlike the swinging moods of winter, that shift for no reason, Not at all like the hunger of summer, that doesn’t spare even the moon,
Stillwater
Wind glazes the edge, causing ripples on the surface, But soon there is no blemish left on its face, A stone stirs up ripples from its bottom, Soon all that is left, is the stone at the bottom. The first