DAYS ARE WHERE WE LIVE
Wet evening in April
The birds sang in the wet trees And as I listened to them it was a hundred years from now And I was dead and someone else was listening to them. But I was glad I had recorded for him the melancholy.
The birds sang in the wet trees
And as I listened to them it was a hundred years from now
And I was dead and someone else was listening to them.
But I was glad I had recorded for him the melancholy.
Patrick Kavanagh
No comments:
Post a Comment