“…to deplore until ripe of age.”
Someone always comes along, in one way or the other—through a friend,
shared workplace, or in ways that never cross the mind.
Things warm up with someone after enough times of that.
But even so, it's hard to be transparent, some is kept for the self.
And no matter how many reiterations, listening as through a plain page,
some judgements about the other as well.
And those who struggle to run at pace, often overlook their own defects:
take for granted their disposition, and the advantage everyone else has.
The track is covered in time by everyone—
and that friend has long vanished from sight…
“The sun had already set…
And, I failed to predict when winter falls.
In Autumn, the leaves no longer rustled in wind,
they were crushed under the foot.”
The back is seldom turned with the intent of meeting again,
unless some use is left to be made.
Unending monologues only win justice in the brain.
“Oh how well things change…”
I heard it snowed on the track I wished to run on, a race was postponed.
Someone from my school was on the list.
My harbour turned to a relic, a distant one, flourished on my behalf.
I know you will fall,
You can run, you can fall—
or chase your breath, and away, to the first place
when the snow is put aside, the track is cleaned.
You'll live a borrowed dream—or a common one.
In the hills where snow falls, ramps can't be built after all.