AN ECHO
On a distant hill there stands
An old battered house.
Born to shield--
From the burning sun.
In the garden there flowered
Atree of emotion.
To quench its thirst
There flowed a small stream
That carried
The seed of frustration.
Lo' the westward wind
Carried my fruitful song
Which reverberated
Within those ruined walls.
Through the dying echo
A soft spoken voice-
The labour of my
Waiting years,
Drowned in a flood of perspiration,
Thawing the frozen snow
With a sigh of relief.
2 comments:
Loved the description... Simple and beautiful.
Peace.
Now I can't give up. Must go on.
Thanks with love.
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