Songs Still Left to Play

I weave an inner solitude not to feel the ache,

Not to feel the cold. A long poem flows, deep

in my veins. Words like rivers, never growing old. And there are

songs, still left to play. Under the moon, or the breaking

day. When love departs, it leaves its trace. But new love

finds its rightful place. Amidst the noise, the city's loud hum.

I hum my story, where I've come from. The leaves don't

mourn when the wind moves on. They dance instead, to the earth's old song.