The Breeze
Whoosh, Whish! Shrilling breeze
Whips the leaves from off my trees,
Like the clapping, whipping waves,
Withering the rocks away in seas.
The wind is powerful as nature is weak,
The tree is fragile, special - an antique.
The leaves just as old, its crumbled
Fallen down to the burned autumn ground streaks
The trunk so loose, the roots not burly
And the shivering airs has thundered my tree
From standing to sleeping, on the rough fouled floor.
Whooshing, whishing of the shrilling breeze!
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