Are a little left over from yesterday.
But not spoiled.

I don't know
But these times
It seem colder than before
More lonely. More sad.

Since summer is long gone
I don't know
What to cover first
My heart or my skin?

You have this grave ability
Of understanding what is not
And feeling the roughness
Of everything brilliant.

No symphony is more beautiful than you
Even the green grass outside
Wishes for a wisp of your sunshine
Even Auriga wants you to be her Capella.

But little do you know
That I'll pause my life song
If you'll think my way
Or even take a little sigh.

When the ant had told
that December cold
night the grasshopper,
who had spent Summer
singing in the tree,
to go dance now that
he was hungry but free,
he didn’t show the hurt,
for he was alert
To the discomfort
of Winter and language;
but he left the village.

When he, years later,
Came back as a baker
(who sang in the day
and worked in the night),
the first thing he did
was to go see the ant -
a gift-wrapped guitar
in his hand.

(c) LazharBouazzi

The word hate only appeals
To those who are hated
The other knows it by heart
And they tend to share it graciously to the world.