Its a different world, yours and mine

built on different soil, from different time

the trees talk to me of long ago

when they were young and I was old

The hot days that bake it dry come soon,and the warm gentle nights

cold forgotten until the cycle repeats, Dark winter imagined

the cycle repeats.

Outside the circle, safe from the change

its beauty, creation, seen from far range

consequence dissolves like clay in the rain

and the flow continues, joy and pain.

Holding the corners of a space vast

is futile, it sticks to the past

and maybe tomorrow, something will I see

that brings me back searching for something to be.

rhythm and tempo, are the draw

dance to the beat or be left raw

outside the circle or in it, be

but both is harder, but needed if free.

Ashes to ashes they say, dust too...

but isnt that freedom

rather than glue?

�Alex R Singh 2008