He gazes at the sunset
his wrinkled frame
afraid and cold
seeks the embrace of eventide
In the shrill silence
across a darkening sky
the stars laugh
and time ticks on
as if to taunt him
For he dreads
the turn of seasons
knowing he shall come
to pass and be forgotten
The tempest shall blow
his memory away like leaves
from a dying tree
so the land may again
pulsate with the ritual
of sowing and reaping
of hoping and becoming
(Redmoon of Bukidnon likes to describe himself as a trying hard poet.)
