This dry winter evening,
has nothing yet something,
the clouds all dead,
the birds all fled,
the leaves all fell,
the fruits sent for sell,
this dry winter evening,
has nothing yet something!
Upon the cushion of dead leaves-come sit,
let your thoughts flow-drown your wit,
look at those trunks strong but bare,
those dry streams none to stare,
those half broken nests waiting for the hosts,
those beautiful hills threatening as ghosts!
Where is the Forester collecting the wood,
The nest is empty-where is the food,
The trunks so bare-where are the leaves,
Where is the web that the spider weaves,
Where is the magic of the evening skies,
“lost in the woods” where are those eyes?
where? They are all dead and gone,
like that old Poet who wrote on and on,
and as he passed-the legacy was thrown,
somewhere those verses are still alone,
like the various corridors of these hilly ways,
waiting for someone to read-to praise!