by Mooz marc

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Drewdrops

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In the morning gently lands on a nature still asleep, yet the rays of the sun chase the veil of the night that needs to retire to the shade of large trees, which can not remain. So sad and resigned the night goes without a noise, in a whisper, now we know why the dew is only there in the morning, hanging herbs with hollow, leaves of undergrowth posed by kindness and gentleness. But the reality is different, thinking about the spirit of the forest from every morning drop these beads, it is not so because the dewdrops are only the night in tears, ran away on arrival in the morning. Every morning we know that night cried in a whisper and satin is gone, her veil topped with grief, the dewdrops are only the tears of a night.

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