April winds are blowing South.
Said his soul would breathe,
When his world will be,
A day with Light, no dawn, no dusk.
Trees are left behind
As his train speeds by,
Through guiding rails, Northern skies arrive.
Distorted lives,
Their cynical lies,
Fall in eyes of those waiting at home.
When no miles recede,
His train stops for him,
To realize , there blows no wind this time.
His April winds,
They never blew south.
When we move ahead,
The world runs against,
Northern Skies arrive.
People wait at home,
As he moves ahead,
Southern wind’s against.
For his day of light
should he fake progress,
or Should he end his race?
Should he stay where he is?
Would we stay where we are!
Posts
