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...and the waves sighed helpless |
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as the shore devoured them |
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the clouds which adorned the sky |
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so dark but beatyful |
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every stone, every stem |
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is all part of a picture |
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together they weave on the beholder |
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who takes the nature in and comprehend it |
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but this picture is different from human-eye to human-eye |
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though it will always be the same |
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bewitch me the perfume of a withered rose |
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which is actually dead but the perfume (and the beauty) are steady |
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though it changes please or shock the human mind |
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a withered rose often in connection with grief |
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the withering so we say it is the end |
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but everything can fade away the love the pain... |
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so we say that the withering is loosen from all spheres |
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and it's just a cover which hides the life in it's being |
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but in any form the being is constant |
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though it is often or eternal only the rememberance |
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but the only true grief is not the withering |
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it is that rememberances fall to pieces too... |
