Beyond the glass box's walls,
Trees sway in the wind's wild thralls.
Though their sounds I cannot hear,
To see them moves me, and brings me cheer.
From the pitch box, I hear a sweet birdsong,
Pure, it carries me along.
Though their colors I cannot see,
Their melodies uplift me.
Yet still, my mind does wonder so,
What do the trees sound like?
What hues do the birds truly adorn?
YOU ARE READING
As Time Slows Around Us [Poetry]
PoetryAs complicated as time itself, like the silent conversations with the moon and sun, lie the complexity of the screaming but silent thoughts of the stars. "All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." ...
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