By Luis G. Dato
Leaves on the ground,
Boughs by the zephyrs in ecstasy dropped,
Vines looking up
At the trunk they had clung to but lately,
Till the breezes came their way…
They are scattered and helpless,
Wistful of glories once theirs for a day.
The sand of the shoreline,
Crags from their setting torn asunder,
By the splash and spray…
Mortals go near them unthinking of agony there.
Winds will break in tempests.
Oceans burst into waves…
Man must have music, not counting the pain and price
In fallen leaves in the garden,
In broken stones by the shore.