Why do the mountains cry so painfully,their wails in moisture laden windsthat beating against the world, in sheetsfall down, as the icy rain…Once more the brown leaves reek of deathonce more remind of when they were greenthere used to be hope and happiness…now, there's only rain


The soul inside the statue

On the pedlar's street, there was a pedestalmade out of funny, crooked stoneupon which, stood a bent man's sculpturehis solemn look quite chilling to the boneThe inscription said he was the first to sellaround those parts, his peddled waresthat he died both hungry and miserableand with a great many caresOne night, as the merchants packed… Continue reading The soul inside the statue