Little leaf at the top of the vine.
Folded by wind, fully entwined.
As cuts slowly bend their way.
The lithe leaf started to decay.
Pulled by eath aside the top.
Unprepared for the great big drop.
Singly dancing his road to the ground
Meeting the same faith, stacked and mound.
Never seen how low, high can be.
Dit is het gedicht waar ik al veel te lang mee bezig ben, iets te snel afgemaakt.
Mvg,
'Plays wasted words, proves to be warn, that he not busy being born is busy dying.'
