You lie far away where

wagon wheels and babies once squealed

and after the bustle, tall grass

grew, swaying in breeze

echoing the peace

you now know.

 

I will journey there

where those hissing grasses

now hush the chaos

where green rolling hills

yet whisper secrets

where I imagine humble Angels

prostrate and praying.

 

Perhaps, autumn bending to winter

will be the setting, with

gunpowder clouds swirling

but nonetheless, I will sing, ‘Que Sera, Sera,’

and spite the gloom

with red roses.

 

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