FestoonsWhen the turning sun rides the carpet over the moon; As thorns subside among withered roses;
FestoonsWhen the turning sun rides the carpet over the moon; As thorns subside among withered roses; The tide of all things becomes day; The cadence of each wind reminds its time to go; Time to chide. Time to sow. Eager not the slumbering depths; Layers speak to layers; Their truths, their secrets; Beyond ears reach of those who care not. Pay when the hawker beckons; Hear when the festoons trail; Wake with question whether you heard or dreamed. ~MExclusive ph. MExclusive All rights reserved. -- source link