Sapphire

        SAPPHIRE       

       

 

 

Sun has gone crimson

and sycamores have stopped to burn

Sycamores, tossing in glee;

        hundreds of trees,

        thousand years old,

        straddle the road.

Road that I racing west,

Driving against memories.

Memories, swaying like breeze,

collide my car, vintage sapphire.

The way never slithers and swirls,

        it just goes straight, under

       the yellow velvet of quintuplets;

       when sun is to be set,

       and clouds seeming to be

       six months pregnant.

Flurrying to my fuzz,

leaves, with yellow hue,

say that I have some dues;

to the faded pages, worn-out cover,

to the stolen raisins, to the seventeen,

to my dreams and to my nightmare,

to the wind of western sapphire.