The thunder growled
Over the late spring
The flowers whitered under the chaos
And the starry night was lost within
Yet still,
The old man sat on the bench,
Beside the tomb with a stick.
Reading the stories of love and peace.
Telling his wife about the bright sun over him
And how happy he finally is,
For he understood life
That was never his.
_________
Huz
YOU ARE READING
Endless
PoesíaIt is the abyss I wander in Floating like I have no sin Playing notes of peace On a stolen violin -------- Ranked#4 in stopthehate
