Nothing can compare to nature;
we retread this wooded route,
when no art and no poetry,
can account for the beauty around me.
Even the dead of the trees
lay peacefully along the earth;
they open themselves for pathways.
We, the blind wanderers hold our tongues,
our ears are deaf, Tree falls in the woods,
no one is there to hear him.
Lovers compare silvery frosted glass,
of the bleached winter mornings,
to the soft, gentle breathing,
that broke them both into song.
We are, perhaps, dwelling in twilight,
Many days have passed without notice.
The child learns his seasons first,
and his life weaves around,
all else.
Edited (Twice)
To be honest, I'm undecided on the title, so the current one is more of a placeholder, any suggestions are welcome though!
