On a dusty morning,
I sit in my chair,
In the public library.
Reading, discovering,
To open my mind,
Broaden my horizons,
Widen my thoughts.
I have lost,
The meaning of life,
Burned out,
My inner self.
Endless work and routine.
Trivial things,
Mean nothing.
I look up from my book,
Reasons unknown.
Specks of dust,
Dance through sunlight,
Glinting.
I'm reminded,
Off a forgotten tune.
A thought appears,
A memory.
I follow,
And my memories,
Appear,
Of childhood.
The forgotten tune,
Seems louder now.
Gentle strums,
Of a guitar.
The tune materialises,
A rack away.
I follow the sound.
Lo!
An old man sits,
Playing the tune,
His fingers plucking,
A tune I now remember.
Tears flow unbidden,
As pure bliss flows.
My meaning in life,
Is back.
I enjoy the music,
Closing my eyes.
When I open my eyes,
The music stops.
The man is gone,
But the guitar stays.
It's a gift,
Says a note,
A gift of life.
Not bad......... seems a run-on discourse.....Flow is good Infact some memories of the past have lasting fragrance and shine....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thanks :) I used raw inspiration to write this, so it may seem... Rough