The music-soul stirring,
except for the recorder, erring,
the sound is complete and incomplete,
the rhythm is picking up,
as the rhyme in my mind,
I am in a state of rewind,
not of the past,
but of yesterday,
when I lay in the wooden bench,
by the lawn,
thinking why does it always dawn?
can’t the smooth night continue,
silently,
with all sufferings given time,
to face relentlessly,
why the hopes by day,
when by night, they elope.