Folding Back

Restore the old hut

Where a horn once echoed

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Dares To Dream

Morning comes

Hanging by a breath

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Silent Sunday – In Between

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What Remains Inside

How much silent

A night could be

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A Breeze

That certain breeze

Will be the path

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A Midnight’s Flow

A sigh just escaped

Carrying not just breathe

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Chained

Without those

Whom we can’t live

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The Spectacle Of Life

What will we be our scattered state,

When the spectacle is over?

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Weekend Sky #95 – April 8th

Before the rise

When the world is asleep

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