I thought i saw a tree, all brown and grey
Waiting endlessly for an unknown change
There are those who write stories, and there are those who don’t
Then there is a me, who comes to truce, although there is no muse
If only i could pause
Should I look out for some light ? Or should I put on field glasses ?
A part of me rebelled
The lakes seem silent, those were uneasy currents
I am here and there
And yet
I do see the tree, all brown and grey
