The grass beneath, and that sun above.
That place to the east;
To make what of?
The endless chatter, and their humid languor.
And yet, there I sat,
Wondering when I will matter.
The mind, of course it falters.
It crumbles, mumbles, sways.
In which direction, it’s impossible to be sure.
But don’t linger in its opressive swelter.
For rarely do things come and stay.
Only the bitter memories of that fine day.