Through the Ages

summers have passed
slipped from the grip of his hands
gone with the blast of the wind
pages of the calendar have thinned
consumed by recent unfolding
locked in the history’s leaves
scenes of times still in the running
empty wagons  filled with dreams
different stories waiting to be told
received by the ears of every mold
disguised end  continued to crawl
man’s adventures  smoked by a call
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