Poetry

When summer lingers in the last hot days before autumn
every dove, sparrow and weaver gambols
but already the end of the hot season has been set
and there are far horizons becoming the swallows.
Sometimes love is a strange kind of thing
and I wonder why I do constantly get hurt
when with words that do cherish I do attract lightning bolts
and in the twinkling of an eye a whole lifetime passes.
I am stripped in this coming winter season
as if there will never again be a spring and a summer
as if nothing that comes ever again can make an impact,
when already I read the signs of decay,
but still the summer sun lingers in my days of old age
with promises of the golden days that will come again.