Gazing at sky atop, I see myriad shaped clouds
that are prisms perfect , under the tree I ponder
if these are nature's cotton or product of manufacturers'
Oh! white cloud, that makes purest snow blush in wonder.
Memories ah! those lasting moments in moving times,
that aren't vivid in facts yet clear in heart's trove
passes thro' fields of my colorful consciousness,
making me gape after it, in a lone state.
The memories are silver pure and emotions true,
I wonder if they really in the past existed
in this world mundane where we lived and live,
Perhaps, like the clouds up there, unnatural products of mood.
Oh! I pine for pristine past with glad grandeur
present filled of facts, what are thy?, I wonder.
Sky changes from clear blue to dreary black,
Behold o man! the product of kindness slack
Alas! I get drenched in rain that is real
providence, I say, you are very cruel.
Regrets, O God!, thorns that prick hard,
long after they die, in unseen places
the past is farce but pain, its gnawing
like a slimy snail in apple, decimating.
How much I pine to realize
that white is true and rain a mirage,
child's smile playing on sweet lips
are truer than an old man's withering sighs.
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