Echoes

Echoes in the morning,
as birds sang their song,
gave the day a warming,
as they piped along.

Echoes in the daytime,
of noises made by man,
left the world less sublime,
'twas not in Nature's plan.

Echoes in the eve,
are barely heard at all,
to petty lies we cleave,
and run from Nature's call.

Echoes in the night,
have nothing left to say,
seems we just fuss and fight,
and throw it all away.

Echoes in the mind,
beg us to try again,
for its peace we'll find,
when we call our brothers friend.

Echoes in the morning,
again will sing a song,
we'll bask in the worming,
as we should have all along.

Reviews

[Siddartha Beth Pierce]

Hopeful yet melancholic at the same time. Very thoughtful writing.
Light,
Siddartha