Even When It Dries the Vine
Even when it dries the vine,
That crept tight in borrowed time
Remains coiled and fine
To nurtured clime
There’s a fisher by the lake
Silently looking at his bait;
A somber lady in dark gray
Stays on park each day;
And a man of forgotten youth
Kicks the can of aimless shoot.
All of them watch morning fine
Reading between the line
Looking at clouds’ shape
‘till it turns late
time passes and they stay
That the moon’s lenient ray
And stars’ narrating way
Leave a mark to live next day.
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