Deep crimson, streaks of gold; a bulging cloud coddling the orange ball. Two dozen birds, miniature marvels, gliding across, with messages from heaven.
Slowly, steadily, you descend and drop,
next to me, you go hip-hop..
Fragile bird, with a pallid wing,
what message do you bring?
I hear a grumble; What is it? Is it you, my stomach? Nope, nope..it can’t be, for I just fed you..this glass, a proof.
Ah, serene, sensual, surreal; succour, I succumb to thee; Bach and Mozart, Masters of the art! Will you forgive me, this son of thee? – Sinful, sinning, sinner.
And there sings a distant lark,
thro’ the frills of dark..
O’ye lark in mad mood,
what d’ya sing – The Art of Fugue?
“Ah yet another bereaved lover..,” mutters the man in guard, walking by.
O’ dear sir, I ain’t lost a lover,
but a lovely, beautiful daughter..
She was born this day,
but fate snatched her away…
I raise my violin, play her tune,
gathering memories, that are strewn..
Heavenward wind, carry with you,
this father’s tune, to her, my due.
Pic by Rubyblossom under CC license