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Poem

Beyond the maple hills that have fought many storms,
gales don't disturb the meadow of grape hyacinths:
observe the Aurora Borealis paint the soft azure sky
into a glittering, robust gold which the fading moon envies
as thick dew starts dripping from them like idle rain often does...


Over there a varicolored aura of glitter always appeared,  
and from a run-down shack blue grass was played on time...
drunken with buck beer, the big fellow with frizzy, red hair
anxiously stepped outside and started the ritual of vain fools:
thinking that fire would have burned the Earth and he would have died.


Bobtails watched him and wondered what made
his face so red and his dirty feet miss a step as he fled
to reach the meadow of grape hyacinths to cry out and curse God,
but his cussing nobody heard while his anger increased into the unfolding dawn...
exhausted from screaming he got up listening to a rustling sound coming from behind. 


He looked around and saw nothing moving,
" It must be a squirrel searching for food, " he thought to himself  
then a swishing wind knocked him down and an eagle swooped down to seize his beer,
" From now on, I'll never return to the meadow of grape hyacinths! " he vowed.


As time went on, he forgot his promise to never go back,
but one spring morning getting up early to watch the brilliant dawn from his shack,
he remembered the meadow of grape hyacinths and with the strong urge of seeker...
he raced there to catch the last rays of that sunrise to proclaim himself its keeper.

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