In Search of Silence

  Now you are gone, my August sun, Stars are dead, Daylight shun. Burned at the palm of your cold cold hand, No Februaries, can come undone. Not my moon, not my wind, but a borrowed song, kept from within. From souls, afar, My August leaf, Falling fast, without relief. Goodbye, my muse, farewell, adieu. ….  Read More