There is a small place in this world,
where a valley lays.
It is has a village with a few houses,
and a few trees at the top.
I live there,
and I wait.
They wait for a better year, a better day, or a piece of bread to keep from going hungry.
None of these ever occur.
They call it a healing process, and to be patient.
But each day I look at the horizon waiting for that better year, and it never seems to appear.
I catch fish, and walk by the lake, and climb a tree, but that horizon never has anything coming over it.
I hope and hope and hope.
Now I am hopeless.
I am also speechless.
I can no longer speak my mind or uncover my thoughts, for I am still waiting for that better year.
I have not parted yet, but I am still waiting.
I am waiting in that valley, with a few houses and a few trees, looking for the better days.
Death has not grasped me, not until that better year.
But I have been sitting and looking forever,
and my skin has wrinkled, as well as my life.
I am persistent on those better days, but I don't know when it will come.
Maybe today, tomorrow or in 1000 years.
Till death do I part, I will look for that missing better day.