Detour


 

This is the detour
The blooming fields of May like ashes in gold
A winding road thrown upward
The fresh flow of the sea echoing through the forest

Dim stars looking down
Every glimpse an eternity
The silence here has something to say
To us few from the outer-world

I remember lightning slashing in a snowstorm
The white-hot crackling, swirling life
Outside my window on a winter Sunday
No ash back then
Just golden promises and a naive hope

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