THE POET'S RYTHM
Born ye to meet withering heights, And raised to the Waters of the World, With lush of greens of sick soul but once it was To the sands of innumerable borrowings and tillings. What to see beyond the lights of values, Where to search for survival of imitations, To sell out life beyond victories of survivals. There choosen one - the sight with the Beauty That admitted to the kisses of the vanishing time. Travels to the corners of the World Not still returning to it's habitat. As Nature's offsprings choosen to offer Everything new and fresh to the dews of my eyes. Thristy he was to drink the juice of satisfaction. One day he choose to hit the target of his life. The wonder of the Nature revealed it's charm That stood beyond all of his bad temperaments. To live unable to leave to lie, In the bed of Water and Sand, To the burrials of fresh greens below. To taste the luck and the mimicry of Nature's cries Tamed him to sleep in a soft bed. The next day