the little sounds it first makes
rejoices in doubt as soon as this taste
of fresh fruit drips from the contented corner
of my lips -
there is more even though
there is not much to show
the proof has fallen rotten
down from that sad, old and forbidden
cotton tree
its branches,
they shake - nor with pleasure but graced
by the slightest of winds
that carefully spill
these unsound and unchancy beans
for me -
for me, for I see
the delightful eyes blurred into
the nuisance of a tomorrow
where
the golden tinted
and
the poorly acquainted
reform - and arrest
the old ways of a world
that
never grew out of its adolescence
yes,
the joyful sounds of the drum
the little waves
they form
not out of rhythm
down by the quiet and calm
part of that river -
that in all is set
to be
(life, it is)
more than a bed of water
for those who seek
refreshment
(a big tease)
it is life
purely because
it was left to be -
yes-
left for me
to see.
