The wind that blows through the weeds.


The wind that blows through the weeds.

I do not take back the hour.
As I listen to the wind through the weeds, the tall grass blows through the wind.

As it whistles it sings in a lullaby.
To tell it by the days of old, to tell stories of something with pure gold.

The splendor of the hour is taken, as you are thinking.
By this shape of the cloud, you take not what's yours but you take what's mine.
The day goes by when you listen to the grass blows it whistles a song to you.

The pure splendor moment of this life has not taken it by the shot of the hour.
I to listen to the songs it sings, the ghost that dance in the shadows.

As the grass blows it whistles a song can you hear it?
I can hear it loud and clear.
Don't wish to fall back to the hour, but this moment is fading like a faded smile.

In the grass, it whistles my name, can you hear it.
I think it's splendor to hear something so beautiful.
The wind that blows through the weeds through the grass. It hums to the sound of springtime.

Just put down what you're doing, and stop it now. Just listen to the sound of the grass, and weeds. The wind that blows through the weeds, and the tall grass. It sounds like a song, how beautiful it sounds.

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This Poems Story

Just taking a break and listen to the sound of grass whistling through the wind. And through life, it sounds like a foreign poem but it sounds more peaceful. it's a springtime poem for the people, who love poetry and who love poetry about life this is my poem.