I often wonder how can I look the other way,

from a divine finger’s skills that placed 

concocted hues, stroke on stroke that take,

a fantasy worth extolled, just so.

I yearn to grow old and tired, beside his magnum opus, 

more durable than thought.

It is the pivot of my turning world.

When time moves on and on and has shaken my mind,

that puts the world of living by.

Then found my vision sliding to be no longer bound.

Will I miss it if I change?

Yes, I miss the fall always- till the winter comes,

For change after all, will not change at all…                



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