That there are images in this evening
That are worth etching into the mind,
Depends upon your smile,
And your voice of welcome.
The swirling colors of the horizon,
Pink and orange and violet haze,
And golden rays of yellow,
They either laugh and rejoice with me,
Or jeer in persecution,
And the cooling breeze that ruffle the grass
Either sway in unison to my floating cadence,
Or whisper taunts and leering insults to my ear.
Strange, and childish, you might say,
But with all the maturity of the mind,
One always rediscovers
How the heart always remains a child.
And oh, the perfume of the night wind!
My heart has chosen you
To be young for.
12/13/05 — 11:50 am