Burnished drops hang on the wind’s own words,
Most aware of their perfection.
Landing softly on the wings of birds,
Gazing on their own reflection.
All along the lengthy winding way,
Faces turn to garner favours,
At the closing of another day,
As the bright horizon wavers.
And the story nears a certain close;
One of joy or one of sorrow.
Who can tell for sure, since no-one knows,
What the tale will be tomorrow?
Burnished drops hang on the wind’s own words
As the sun recedes in beauty,
Bringing forth the blissful silken night
Ready to perform her duty.