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Salon of Poetry for Critique - Four
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Poem Number 400
In the country tranquility dwells in the heart of the hills
the frantic culture of suburbia does'nt exsist
twisted urbanisms selfdegrading lifestyle isn't relevant
trees whisle with the wind like instruments of god
the evening quiet comes upon you as a time for soulfull reflection
a grinning moon looks down at you with all possibilities
rooster crows tell us there is hope for another day.
Commentary:
very nice line: "trees whislte with the wind like instruments of god"
-t
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so true - NANGALEEMA
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please close this site out so that /wc can't terrorize innocent people.
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go away
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