Candle
By Paul Lanic
The scent of the summer song
ends in the last dance of
the candle - lit beside my
windowsill.
The tracks of time is engraved in
the stepping stones where
the first leaves of winter
fell.
The moon casts darkness to
the person lying beside the warmth of
the candles; seeking in the pitch, black silence for
something.
Love.
By Paul Lanic
The scent of the summer song
ends in the last dance of
the candle - lit beside my
windowsill.
The tracks of time is engraved in
the stepping stones where
the first leaves of winter
fell.
The moon casts darkness to
the person lying beside the warmth of
the candles; seeking in the pitch, black silence for
something.
Love.