A long swing hangs low,

swaying from an old,

drooping tree.

Blown lightly by a cold

and moist breeze,

it slowly ripples

back and forth.

Everyday,

the swing shivers alone

in the shade as it longs

for a past life:

the life where when it rained,

the sky was shedding

tears of joy;

when the wind blew,

it was singing

a comforting lullaby.

In those days,

the swing was content

to simply fly

and smile at the sky

at it reached towards the sun.

But now the wind

and rain

were of a tragic story,

that echoed in its solitude.