The Years, My Friend
The years, my friend, have not been kind
upon your marble face, I hear the river songs
tinkle with the cymbals,
your eyes are shriveled grapes upon the vine,
your mouth a wounded cherry,
pecked reddish-grey
by restless robins.
Take my hand, my friend,
let us go to the calling fields that blaze with diamonds
under the eternal skies,
to the orchards in the midst of these winter days,
where leafless branches stand dauntless
in the endless cold, with jubilant tales to tell
in the blizzard of their days —
harken to the legends
of the root and the bud and the sun,
and the promise
(believe the promise)
that warmth and springtime
will come,
(it always comes)
once again.
by D. G. Vachal © 2013
*** Photography by Farhad
lilies, sparrows and grass 
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