Monday, September 10, 2007

Life brews

From the stony mountain tops,
To the rivulets edge,
Where the arid land meets,
The violet beds of crimson reds.

A lone car travels,
Along the black snake,
Twisted around the mountain,
Like a prey in its vice.

And as the sky roared
And the mountain shook,
A vain little brook,
Flowed on like a crook.

Twas then that the lighting struck,
And sparked the vast beds of grass,
That had yellowed with the passing rain,
And were brightly set aflame.

But as the grass burnt
And the car tumbled,
A lone voice was heard from deep within the jungle,
A voice that said all was not lost.

For the grass would grow again,
And the car would move again,
And the rivulet would flow again,
And when the twain do meet,

Life would brew again.

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