Fleeting
By Rof Cau
I strolled to the park, whistling along the wayfor such was the pleasantness of the autumn daywhen, of a sudden, there appeared to bea small child running around ahead of meand before my eyes by an old sycamore treethe child became a man writing poetryand as he wrote a few clouds drifted bythe man, now old, looked toward the skywhere high in the air a lonely seagull flewa speck of white in an expanse of blueI turned again to the poet under the treebut there was nought of him but my memoryI thought about all this as I trundled along:About life and fleeting moments forever goneand as I walked and wondered about all thatthe wind came up and blew off my hat Written September 22nd, 2001 © on Sep 22 2001 05:16 AM PST 0 • 13
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"I strolled to the park, whistling along the wayfor such was the pleasantness of the autumn daywhen, of a sudden, there appeared to bea small child running around ahead of meand before my eyes by an old sycamore treethe child became a man writing poetryand as he wrote a few clouds drifted bythe man, now old, looked toward the skywhere high in the air a lonely seagull flewa speck of white in an expanse of blueI turned again to the poet under the treebut there was nought of him but my memoryI thought about all this as I trundled along:About life and fleeting moments forever goneand as I walked and wondered about all thatthe wind came up and blew off my hat..."