nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore   evermore  nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore

It rained outside,
Me sheltered beneath a bridge.
I took a look around
And saw a tree up on a ridge.
It stood solely, solemn there,
The tree itself already downed;
Cut and brought away,
At this thought I frowned.
I let my eyes go on
And raised them to the sky.
Gray and dark and cold
Looked at those clouds high.
With tranquilizing drips
Fell the heavy rain
As if it would weep
For that poor tree‘s pain.
There were many of us
Who sheltered ourselves there.
The trunk all exposed outside,
I thought it wasn‘t fair.
It was a freezing day
But I was, as always, not cold.
I stood there, listening,
To a bird that sung so deeply woed.
It was narrow there,
But if I had been alone,
I would have stayed for an eternity
Thinking of my beloved ones.
This tree yonder, I thought,
It must have hosted once birds that used to sing.
Now it‘s gone, and the birds will be, one day, too.
And that, I thought, is a sad thing.

Torn pages flutter deep
Into dark-golden abyss
Tears of ink fall where books weep
Flying in flame-like bliss

Sun stretches golden fingers
And reaches through broken rooftops
To catch those falling poets and singers
And the frail paper of their mental crops

Those pages crackling, bristling
With thin veils of smoke rising from the piles
No one ever heard these flames whisper
Yet maybe it's golden Dustthat rises from the files

Wind carries parchment back and fourth
Dancing in whirls of solemn waltz
Love letters above float
Telling of flaming hearts
Among the rubble and debris they lay
Those sacred words of subtle lines
Etched inside from dark inwells
Torn pages telling of forgotten times