The cloudy weather

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As the trees get older,
the branches get bolder,
we empty life’s folder,
when the time is colder.

As the needles get strong,
the branches get long,
we remember a song,
when we hear the gong.

From angelic voices,
we make our choices,
light falls into a cave,
we get out to be brave.

The place where we heal,
can’t be one made of steal,
can’t be one made of glass,
nor concrete, wooden brass.

Where the birds are singing,
and the ants are clinging,
a mantis looking in your eyes,
while nearby the Romans role the dice.

Water will help you see and calm,
oily fruits on some old palm,
the smell of grass and balm,
while touching a flowers halm.

What is there else to do?
If all there is are green and blue?
Only a coconut, an island and you?
And one foot, held in a broken shoe.

The soft sand beneath your feet,
cold water and the sunny heat,
while a few nearby animals bleat,
Wouldn’t want to hurt, for meat.

Lost on the island you wait and dream,
not long ago escaping the silent scream,
against the river, the bloody stream,
you just laid down without the ream.

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(playlist EU 4 – 83 soundtracks)