ANDANTE CANTABILE
Never know from reasons, the hedging or the
whomp. The harder you hit, the bigger they
fall. It's so slow in this Springtime air - still
chilly in the mornings, downright cold - so
slow to ever warm up. All those birds and
flowers, increasing their flock, spreading
their wings and seeds. The beauty of a
growing lawn is never ruined by weeds.
-
I walk this lane counting my money. It's all I
can do from crying. Everyone else seems to have
it all - men, women and children, far above
are they. I walk this dirt-surfaced path while
wondering: why can't a five be a ten at that?
-
My father was an archer, but they all had guns.
He lost his reputation very quickly and - alas -
died just as well from ten bullets to the heart.
When I heard the news, I was more than stunned.
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