Like Time

That "past", what was it? But leaflessness? But plunder? But shivering with cold in the bitter frost of Dey? But the murmured sobs in the nights of darkness, of loneliness? A branch left alone mourning the other branches?... But how did "time" know that they would pass pass, the days of its exile, that it was preparing — all the while — far behind the curtain of the soil the green shoots of its garden's tomorrow...